


Just To Know You're Alive

by seimaisin



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bandom - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:35:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seimaisin/pseuds/seimaisin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick turned around to face Pete, and Pete started talking. "You can disappear into thin air. You can get into someone's head and make them do things. You rarely leave your basement. And, apparently, unless someone slipped acid into my drink tonight, you drink blood." Pete stopped in front of Patrick, who wore an expression like a caged animal. "Are you a motherfucking vampire?"</p><p>Pete watched Patrick swallow. "There's no such thing as vampires," he finally answered, his voice shaky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just To Know You're Alive

The kid was a little pale - okay, a lot pale - but Pete didn't think anything of it. He was a geeky redheaded teenager with glasses and fast, nervous speech that made Pete hiss at Joe, "Really?"

"Seriously," Joe replied, a little louder than Pete would have preferred. "He's great, we totally need him. If you can convince him to join the band."

"We don't have a band yet," Pete reminded him.

"We will."

The kid - Patrick - twitched as he led them downstairs into his basement. His mother, somewhere on the other side of the house, yelled, "Let me know if you guys want any soda or something." Pete had to blink when he reached the bottom of the stairs. The large room was decorated entirely in wood paneling, probably left over from before any of them were born. There were a few music posters taped to the walls, but Pete couldn't make out what they were because the only light in the basement came from two standing lamps, one in each far corner. The bulbs in the lamps couldn't have been more than 75 watts each, Pete figured, not nearly enough light for the entire room. "Jesus, it's a fucking cave," he said, rubbing his eyes.

"I like the dark." Patrick walked across the basement and stood next to a drum kit. Pete also saw a guitar in the corner, as well as a spread of paper - handwritten sheet music, he noted when he squinted and walked closer - littering the floor around an amp. "I don't know why you guys are here," Patrick continued, folding his arms across his chest. The gesture made him look even smaller, like if Pete blinked, Patrick would disappear entirely. "I told you, Joe, I can't be in your band. Any band," he rushed on. "It's not personal. I just can't."

"But you're awesome," Joe argued. "Is it a parent thing? Because I could have my mom talk to your mom, she's really persuasive …"

"It's not that. What are you doing?" The last was directed at Pete, who had picked up a sheet of paper.

Pete moved closer to a lamp, peering at the paper. The notes on the paper translated into music in his brain, and he looked back up at Patrick. "Can you play this?"

"I wrote it, of course I can fucking play it." He snatched the paper back from Pete and folded his arms over his chest again.

"Then do it, jackass."

"What?"

"Play it. Or," Pete grabbed the paper back out of Patrick's hand, "I'll start singing the notes, and no one wants that. Right, Joe?"

Joe nodded furiously. "Trust me. You don't want him to sing."

Patrick continued to stare at Pete until Pete looked down at the paper and cleared his throat. The sound that came out of his mouth was strangled, and caused Patrick to wince and grab the paper back once again. "Fine, fine, whatever."

"Told you," Joe muttered under his breath.

Pete, however, was focused on Patrick, who sat cross-legged on the floor with his beat-up electric guitar. He barely looked at the sheet music; he began to play the melody with his eyes closed, opening them only when the tempo picked up. At that point, he bit his lower lip in concentration, causing the pink to disappear and leaving only a pale line that blended in with his unnaturally pale skin. Pete couldn't stop staring. It was the music, he told himself - the melody was simple but super catchy, and Pete could already hear a club full of people singing along with it. "You're in," he said when Patrick's guitar trailed off.

Patrick blinked up at him, startled. "What?"

"What?" Joe echoed. "I thought we were looking for a drummer! We already have a guitarist. You know, me."

"Some bands have two guitarists, it's fine." Pete waved Joe off. "And I know someone for drums."

"Andy already told you no, dude."

"I haven't asked enough times yet."

They were interrupted by the sound of the guitar clattering to the floor. There was a small spot of color in Patrick's cheeks, making the rest of his skin look even paler. "I can't. Didn't you hear me?"

"Bullshit, you can't." Pete circled to the darker side of the room. At this angle, Patrick had a dim halo of light surrounding him, which made Pete shake his head to clear his vision.

"I can't," Patrick repeated. "I'm not looking for a band. I don't play in public."

"Of course you're looking for a band. What, you've just got a bunch of instruments set up down here just for the hell of it?"

"Maybe I do." Patrick shrunk back into a shadow. All Pete could see of him was a flash of green eyes staring sorrowfully at him. "You guys should go. I'm sorry, you shouldn't have come."

"Patrick," Joe said, taking a step forward. "Come on, we talked about it, this is going to be awesome …"

"I'm sure it will. You guys will be great."

"We'll be better with you," Joe said, and Pete found himself nodding.

When they didn't get a response, they both stared at the corner of the room where Patrick had been - where he was no longer standing. "Um," Pete said, walking into the shadowy corner.

"Where'd he go?" Joe followed Pete, frowning.

"Hell if I know. He was just here!"

Joe examined the paneled walls. "There isn't a door here or anything. Only on the other side of the room. Did he get over to the door without us noticing?"

He couldn't, Pete thought, but any other explanation was impossible. Guys didn't just disappear, not even tiny pale ones who seemed to want to disappear. "I guess." Pete suppressed a shiver. "Dude, let's get out of here, I totally need a hamburger."

As they walked back up the stairs, Pete thought he could feel someone watching him. He didn't turn around. "Creepy kid," he muttered.

That night he dreamed about green eyes and a haunting melody.

 

Pete went back to Patrick's house the next week. He couldn't think of any logical reason why, except that the kid had appeared in his dreams three different times. "Stupid, creepy kid," he muttered to himself for what seemed like the millionth time as he knocked on the door. Patrick's mother answered, and Pete plastered his best nice-boy smile on his face. "Hey, I'm a friend of Patrick's, is he here?"

She looked at him kind of funny, but let him in and led him to the basement door. When Pete started to descend the stairs, he heard music - the same melody that had been running through his head for a week, only slightly different. The notes were being plunked out on the guitar, with a sour note at the end. Pete heard a soft curse, and then a surprisingly loud, clear voice sang the melody. It was the voice that made Pete stop in his tracks. It shouldn't have been that interesting - it sounded like a teenage kid. There was some serious talent there, yeah, and Patrick would probably be a killer singer when he got through puberty. But that wasn't why Pete had to grab the stair railing to steady himself. When he thought about it later, he couldn't figure out why he did. It shouldn't have been special. It just … was.

Patrick continued to sing to himself, playing the melody on the guitar at the same time. "Jesus, where the fuck is that note?" he muttered.

"You had it right the other night, I swear." Pete continued down the stairs, wondering why he was breathing like he'd just run a mile.

Patrick was sitting on the floor again, guitar in hand, staring at the staircase with wide eyes magnified by his glasses. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I don't know," Pete answered honestly. "I just wanted to come over."

"Well, go away." Patrick looked back down at his guitar. "I'm trying to work."

Pete sat on the ground in front of Patrick. "I told you, it sounded great the way you played it the other night."

Patrick looked back up at him, scowling. It would have been a lot more intimidating, Pete thought, if he hadn't also been blushing furiously. "Seriously, go away. I don't want to be in your stupid band."

"That's not why I'm here." Not entirely, Pete mentally corrected himself. Especially after hearing Patrick sing - and why the thought of Patrick absently singing his melody made his skin itch, he had no idea. The whole thing was weird. "I just wanted to talk to you again." Which was true, but was just as confusing to Pete as it apparently was to Patrick.

"Why?"

"Because you write awesome songs."

Patrick rolled his eyes. "I played you six bars of one unfinished song."

"And I've been humming it ever since."

"I'm not joining your band," Patrick said stubbornly.

"Why not? And don't give me that bullshit about playing in public again, either, I don't believe in stage fright. You sit down here and write songs and play music, that means you want to play that music for other people."

"No, it doesn't. I play music because …" Patrick faltered, waving his hands in the air uselessly. "Because it's what I do. It's for me. Not anyone else."

"That doesn't make any sense." Pete leaned forward and poked Patrick in the shoulder. Patrick smacked his hand away and stood up. Pete got to his feet while Patrick put his guitar back in its case. "Come on," Pete said, stepping forward. Patrick stepped backward, away from Pete, but found himself caught between Pete and one of the lamps. "I'm not leaving until you give me a real answer."

For a moment, Patrick's eyes went wide with panic. Then, oddly, he started to hum under his breath, a tune that Pete had never heard before. Pete felt his muscles relax, in a way that reminded him of being on painkillers. Pleasant, but very weird, and why was it happening right now? He hadn't taken painkillers since the last time he fucked up his knee.

He almost didn't notice when Patrick's humming turned to words. "Go home," he said softly. Pete felt the words buzz in his ear like a fly. He would swat it away, he thought, if his arms would obey. "Go home, and never come back."

Home, Pete thought. Yeah, he could still be in bed, it was Saturday, he was going out tonight. Why had he come here in the first place?

Patrick was still humming softly, but Pete barely noticed him, except for the fact that the sound vibrated in his chest. Pete turned around and started to walk back to the stairs. A moment later, the sound stopped, and so did Pete. He rubbed his ears. It felt like they'd popped, like he was on a plane or something. "What the fuck? Dude, I have no idea …"

Pete turned around. Patrick was nowhere to be seen. Pete gulped and took a step backward. Then he turned and walked back up the stairs as fast as his ego would allow.

Pete went back two days later. In the light of day, nothing about the previous meeting seemed real. "I imagined things," he told himself as he walked up to the front door. "He probably thinks I'm a freak." And he did, the feeling was definitely mutual. So why was he back at Patrick's house? "Because I'm a freak."

This time, Patrick was pacing around the basement when Pete appeared on the stairs. When he saw Pete, he stopped in his tracks. His mouth fell open wide enough that Pete wrinkled his nose. "Come on, I haven't showered in a couple of days, but I don't look that bad."

"You … you …" Patrick sputtered. "You're … you're not supposed … what are you _doing_ here?"

"You didn't answer me."

When Pete walked towards Patrick, the younger boy skittered away as if Pete threatened him. "But … but … you're not supposed to …"

Pete stopped, frowning. "Come on, kid, I just want to know why you won't leave your stupid basement."

Patrick folded his arms around his waist. "I leave my basement," he said, his voice low and sullen.

"Okay, then, come out and have a burger with me or something."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to!" Patrick suddenly burst into motion, circling around Pete. "And you're not supposed to be here! You weren't supposed to come back!"

"Why not? Because you said so?" Pete shrugged. "I'm not very good at taking orders."

"Obviously," Patrick muttered.

"And, dude," Pete said, smacking Patrick's arm when he circled close enough, "stop doing that thing where you just disappear without saying goodbye. It's creepy. How do you do that, by the way?" He looked around the paneled walls of the room. "Is there, like, a secret door here or something? That'd be cool if there was."

Patrick stopped and stared at Pete. He remained silent, rubbing the spot on his arm where Pete had smacked him. "Oh, it wasn't that hard," Pete said, rolling his eyes. "If this is your idea of social skills, it's no wonder you don't have any friends."

"I have friends."

"Oh, really?"

"Joe's my friend."

"Joe thinks you're weird." The look in Patrick's eyes made Pete suddenly rush on. "But that's okay, he thinks I'm weird too, and anyone who organizes his sock drawer by color has no room to talk."

Patrick stalked back to his drum kit. He sat on the stool and crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't know why you're here," he said plaintively.

"Stop whining and go to Sonic with me."

"No."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because I don't want to!" Patrick repeated. "Is that so fucking hard to believe?"

"Yeah, it is."

"Wow, it's too bad you don't have any ego."

Pete grinned, which made Patrick's scowl deepen. He walked over to the wall, where a small, waist-high refrigerator sat several feet from the drum kit. He leaned against the refrigerator. "Seriously, you look like you're dead, we need to get you some sunshine." Pete looked down; there was a coffee mug sitting next to his hand. Inside, he saw the thickest coffee he'd ever seen. "Jesus, do you drink this stuff or eat it with a fork?" He picked up the mug. He caught a whiff of the liquid inside - there was a metallic tang that made him frown. And, it looked a little ... red?

Pete didn't see Patrick move until he'd snatched the mug out of his hand. "Get the fuck out.

"What?"

"Get out." Patrick shoved Pete in the chest. "Get out. Get out!"

"Seriously, what ..."

Patrick grabbed Pete by the chin. Pete felt his eyes glaze over. "Get. Out." Patrick's voice was little more than a hiss. Pete could feel it buzzing in the back of his head. Patrick whistled softly under his breath, and Pete felt himself sway slightly in time with the melody. "Get out, and forget you ever saw that."

"Forget what?" Pete murmured.

He saw the corners of Patrick's mouth turn up in a small, grim smile. "Exactly."

Patrick let go of Pete's face and retreated back behind the drums. Pete took two steps backward. Suddenly, he heard the strange popping sound in the air around him, and he rubbed his ears. "What the actual fuck was that?"

Patrick's eyes widened in horror. "What?"

"What you just did. What was that? What the fuck did you do to me?"

"You ... you ... what?" Patrick continued to retreat until he stood with his back to the corner, half obscured by shadows.

"You did it the other day, too! And I'm not even drunk or high or anything, so I'm not hallucinating, I swear. What was it?" Pete felt himself shaking. He could still hear the quiet melody Patrick had whistled playing in his head, and the sound made him want to turn around and walk up the stairs. He made himself stand still and stare at Patrick. He didn't always feel like he was in control of his own brain, but he wasn't going to let some weird kid do ... something, some kind of weird whammy bullshit to mess him up. When he said so he saw Patrick's eyes get so wide behind his glasses that Pete could no longer see any white.

Patrick clutched the coffee mug to his chest like a shield. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said weakly.

"Bullshit." Pete stepped forward, until the drum kit was the only thing separating him from Patrick.

Pete blinked. He only blinked, he knew it, it was less than a fraction of a second. But, somewhere in that fraction, Patrick disappeared. He was there, and then he wasn't. Pete stared at the corner. He stepped around the drums and ran his hands over the paneling in the corner. There were no doors, no cracks, no anything - simply solid walls, with nowhere for Patrick to disappear. And no time for him to go anywhere. "Patrick?" His voice echoed through the empty basement.

He stood in the corner for what seemed like a long time. It almost felt like someone was watching him, but every time he turned around to look in the dark corners, he found himself alone.

 

Pete didn't go back to Patrick's house. He told himself it was because the kid was too much of a freak, not because he was scared or anything. And certainly not because Patrick had put some kind of mind whammy on him. Because that shit didn't exist, no matter what kind of weird feeling he'd gotten back in that basement. And whatever had been in that coffee mug ... was not what Pete's brain thought it was. No way. Wasn't possible.

The last thing Pete expected, though, was to see Patrick at a house party the next weekend.

Pete didn't know whose house it was - some girl Chris knew. or someone who was friends with a girl Chris knew, or ... well, whatever, there was booze and loud music and wall-to-wall people, it didn't matter who was throwing the damned thing. Pete had stepped out onto the back porch for some air when he heard a low voice off in the yard. He looked over to see a couple pressed against a tree. The girl had her arms thrown around the boy's neck, and he had her hips held firmly against the tree trunk. Their kiss was loud and enthusiastic. The boy was obviously doing something right, because the girl writhed and moaned against his body. When they pulled apart, she kept her hands fisted in the back of his t-shirt. "Oh, please," Pete heard her say, her eyes closed. Pete chuckled under his breath, impressed. The boy looked to be a teenager, while the girl looked like she'd probably at least graduated from high school. While he hadn't done too badly with chicks when he was in high school, Pete was pretty sure he hadn't managed to make one look quite like that until he was at least eighteen.

The boy lifted his head enough for his face to catch the light coming from the living room window. Pete recognized Patrick and gaped.

While Pete stared, Patrick stepped away from the girl, untangling her hands from his shirt. She made a noise of protest, but he kept ahold of one of her hands and pulled her forward. "Come back behind the garage with me," Pete heard him say. The girl followed along docilely. As they walked further into the dark, Pete could hear Patrick's voice, humming softly.

Pete went back into the house, his mind whirling. He was immediately pulled into a loud conversation in the kitchen, though, and forgot all about the scene outside until he saw the same girl walk back inside some time later, a dreamy look on her face. Pete frowned, and abandoned his friends mid-sentence to go grab the girl's arm. "Hey," he said.

She looked at him and blinked several times. Pete watched her pupils dilate and contract, and a moment later shook her head. "Do I know you?" she asked.

"No," he replied, "but I know that guy you were just with outside. Where'd he go?"

"What?" She blinked again. "I don't ..." She stepped away from Pete, putting a hand to her head. "God, it's so loud in here!" She frowned, but then a smile spread across her face. "Yeah, that was nice. He left." She walked away from Pete without another word. He watched her leave the room, rubbing the side of her neck absently.

Suddenly, Pete wasn't much in the mood for a party.

 

He saw Patrick at a concert a few weeks later. Or, more accurately, in the bar's men's room, with his hand snaking down some guy's pants. Pete had decided his need to piss was more important than the bathroom's reputation as a cesspit of germs and filth. Apparently cleanliness didn't matter much to Patrick either, because he had his hands on the wall, framing a skinny scene kid wearing a bright pink t-shirt. The guy was half a head taller than Patrick, and had his head thrown back against the dirty tile of the wall. Patrick's mouth trailed down his neck; once he reached the collar of the guy's t-shirt, he dropped to his knees. He was humming, which somehow didn't surprise Pete at all. The melody he hummed seemed to match the scene kid's gasps and pants in a strange, staccato rhythm.

Pete took a step back, hopeful that the wall of the nearest stall would keep him out of sight. He could still see well enough to see Patrick - holy shit, Patrick; that strange kid somehow had a fucking amazing mouth - free the guy's cock from his jeans and take it into his mouth. Pete heard himself make a small sound; he clapped his hand over his mouth, but Patrick appeared to be too busy to notice, and the other guy seemed to notice no one but Patrick. Pete couldn't blame him. He felt himself hardening as he watched Patrick's head bob up and down. His partner's ecstatic moans echoed through the otherwise empty bathroom. Pete swallowed hard. Leaving the bathroom was probably his best option. It was definitely the most polite, least crazy-making option.

He stayed in the doorway, eyes riveted to the scene.

Pete didn't notice when Patrick shoved the guy's jeans down past his knees - how was he supposed to notice anything but Patrick's mouth and the obscene wet sound it made as it slid on and off the guy's cock? But after a few minutes, Patrick pulled off and moved one of his hands so that he was only gripping one of the guy's thighs. The guy didn't seem to notice the break in the action, if his incoherent mumbling was any indication. Patrick rubbed his thumbs over the skin of his thigh, humming to himself. He turned his head sideways for a moment, which allowed Pete to see the flush of his cheeks, along with a strangely apprehensive expression. Pete frowned. Patrick had seemed to be enjoying himself, but if this other dude had coerced him somehow, that wasn't cool. Patrick was young - okay, so it wasn't like Pete hadn't had his dick sucked by guys and girls Patrick's age before, but ...

Pete's mental monologue was silenced when Patrick turned back to the scene kid and sunk his teeth into the flesh of his thigh.

Everything was quiet. Pete's breathing, the bathroom, the scene kid ... there was no sound in the room except a faint sucking noise. Mouth slack, Pete inched forward to get a better look. Because he wasn't seeing what he thought he was seeing, right? It wasn't possible, he'd been watching too many late-night movies on Showtime - but a different angle showed Patrick's mouth fixed to the guy's skin, with a trickle of blood creeping down the inside of his thigh. Pete looked up, but despite his silence, the kid's face made it look like he was lost in a cloud of ecstasy. He was definitely still turned on, as his cock bobbed hard and heavy next to Patrick. A moment later, Patrick pulled back. His teeth - no, Pete was not seeing two little white points protruding below his lip. He wasn't seeing fangs, and he wasn't seeing Patrick's mouth stained a deep red. There had to be an explanation for this. Maybe someone spiked his drink? Pete didn't know, but something was causing hallucinations.

As Pete watched, Patrick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat back on his heels. He reached up to grasp the still-bobbing cock, and sang a few indistinct words under his breath. Suddenly, the scene kid was moaning like he'd never stopped. Patrick went back to sucking him off. Pete could see a smear of blood on the hand Patrick used to brace himself against the wall behind the other guy.

Pete retreated from the bathroom quietly, one hand over his mouth.

He had managed to do two shots of tequila at the bar before he saw the bathroom door open. The scene kid came out first, looking dreamy and smug. About five minutes later, Patrick emerged and started to slink towards the door. Pete was off his barstool and heading him off before the bartender could yell at him for not paying his tab.

Patrick was clinging to the wall, hunched over as if that would keep him from catching anyone's attention. Pete hurried to the entrance of the club and leaned on the wall, directly in Patrick's path. When Patrick reached him, he automatically looked up. Pete watched his eyes widen in horror when he recognized Pete. "Hey, I guess you do leave your basement," Pete said. His voice sounded totally calm, which he was proud of, because he could still feel his legs shaking.

Patrick tried to duck around him, but Pete moved in front of him. Patrick scowled. His face was ghost-white, but when he looked up, Pete could see a spot of red remaining on the corner of his mouth. Pete temporarily lost the ability to breathe. When he recovered, he clapped a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "Where are you going? Leaving so soon?"

"I have to get home," Patrick muttered. He tried to shake Pete off, but Pete just pulled him closer and slung an arm around his shoulder. "Let me go, asshole."

"No." Patrick's body was warm against Pete's side. "So ..." Pete looked down at Patrick - or at Patrick's trucker cap, as Patrick was looking intently at his own feet - and took a deep breath. "I saw you in the bathroom."

He felt Patrick's body still. "Let me go," he said softly.

Suddenly, Pete heard a low humming, and he felt something buzz inside his head. Before the weird feeling could set in, he shoved Patrick away. "Stop with that bullshit already."

Patrick stumbled. When he stood back up, his eyes were like saucers as he stared at Pete. "How do you do that??"

"That's my question, jackass."

"No, really." Patrick continued staring. "You're not supposed to be able to ..."

"To what?"

"Resist!" Patrick shouted. He immediately clapped a hand over his mouth.

A group of girls jostled Patrick on their way to the club's exit. He moved closer to Pete. Pete grabbed his arm. When Patrick looked up at him, he shrugged. "I don't want you to do that stupid disappearing thing, either."

He felt Patrick go still. When he looked up, his face was only inches away from Pete's. His eyes were almost entirely green, with only a small rim of white around the edges, and a tiny black dot for the pupils. His breath was hot against Pete's face. Pete shivered. He told himself it was from the remaining tiny blood stain on the corner of Patrick's mouth, and not from the mental flash of Patrick's mouth wrapped around that guy's dick. "You missed a spot," he said.

Patrick blinked. "What?"

"There." Pete reached up and touched his index finger to Patrick's lip. "Blood."

Patrick's eyes flared entirely green before he wrenched his arm out of Patrick's grip. He swiped at the corner of his mouth ineffectually. "I have to go," he said, not meeting Pete's eyes. "I really have to get the fuck out of here."

He walked past Pete. Pete followed him out the door and into the parking lot, which was deserted except for a couple making out against the side of a car. Patrick started to run when he hit the blacktop. Pete moved to follow, but then stopped on the curb and shouted, his voice echoing across the lot. "What the fuck are you, Patrick??"

Patrick stopped. The couple stopped kissing and stared at Pete curiously. He waved them off, and then jogged over to where Patrick was standing at the far edge of the parking lot. Patrick turned around to face Pete, and Pete started talking. "You can disappear into thin air. You can get into someone's head and make them do things. You rarely leave your basement. And, apparently, unless someone slipped acid into my drink tonight, you drink blood." Pete stopped in front of Patrick, who wore an expression like a caged animal. "Are you a motherfucking vampire?"

Pete watched Patrick swallow. "There's no such thing as vampires," he finally answered, his voice shaky.

"Okay, then, you tell me what the hell you are."

They stared at each other for a long minute. Suddenly, a car alarm blared, causing both of them to jump. Pete looked behind him to see the couple sitting on the ground, laughing hysterically. When he looked back, Patrick was biting his lip and swaying slightly. Pete cocked his head. "I'm hungry," Patrick muttered. Pete raised his eyebrows. "For actual food," Patrick clarified. "I do eat real food, you know."

"No, I don't know." Pete took a deep breath. Despite the three shots he'd downed in the bar, he felt stone cold sober. He gestured down the street. "Come on, let's go to Taco Bell."

He took a chance and started walking down the road. He felt a ridiculous sort of pleasure when Patrick jogged to catch up to him a moment later.

 

Once Patrick started talking, he didn't want to stop.

"It's a disease," Patrick said around a mouthful of burrito. They sat on the curb on the dark side of the restaurant, because Patrick had insisted. "I'm not telling you anything where someone might hear," he'd said, folding his arm over his chest. Pete had looked around the dining room; the only other people in the place were the two bored workers, who had gone back to talking about the cashier's bitchy girlfriend the minute they'd given Pete his food. But Patrick had marched back outside, so Pete followed.

Patrick took a swig of his Coke and continued, gesturing with the hand that held the burrito. "Apparently, it's passed down in families. That's the only way to get it. You can't infect other people, it's just in our blood or something." He shrugged. "I don't know. All I know is that I started getting sick about three years ago. My skin was getting all these strange rashes - sunlight really hurt, I got all these nasty blisters and shit - and I was always tired. My mom started taking me to the doctor, and they were doing all these tests. But, then, one night, my uncle showed up. I'd never actually seen him before, he never comes to any of the family holidays or anything. He took my mom into her bedroom and talked to her for a long time. And then, he came to my room and told me. About the disease. He had it, and now I had it."

"Does it have a name?" Pete asked.

"Not really. It's not like we go to doctors or anything." Patrick shrugged, scowling. "I guess vampire works as well as anything. Though that always makes me feel like I should be wearing a cape and talking in a bad accent or something."

"Wow." Pete clapped Patrick on the shoulder. "That's ... kind of awesome, actually." And frightening, though Pete wasn't going to say that out loud. Because it seemed ridiculous, here in the sickly glowing light of the Taco Bell sign, to be scared of the small, pale boy wearing thick glasses and an old Michael Jackson t-shirt. But he remembered Patrick's teeth tearing into the skin of that guy's thigh, and something shuddered through Pete's body that he didn't quite want to put a name to.

Patrick's scowl deepened, and he inched away from Pete's grasp. "Says you. You're not the one who can't go out in sunlight any more. Even when you're a night person, that sucks."

"How do you go to school?"

"I don't. My mom homeschools me now." Patrick shoved the last of the burrito into his mouth. "She hates this," he muttered, his mouth full. "She's learned how to help me out, though. My uncle introduced her to this guy who works at a blood bank, and he gives her a few bags of blood every week. She thinks that's enough, and I'm not ever going to tell her different."

"It's not enough." It wasn't a question. Pete leaned his elbows on his knees and looked at Patrick.

"No. My uncle told me it wouldn't be." Patrick sucked on the straw of his soda. Pete tried to ignore his mouth. "There's something about taking the blood out of the body that makes it ... weaker. I don't know. Part of me wants to be a scientist so I can figure out why, but hey, guess what? I can't go to college." He balled up the empty burrito wrapper and threw it halfway across the parking lot. "Anyway, we can live on the blood bank stuff for a few days, but once a week or so, we need blood from an actual live person. Which is hard, because you can't really just ask someone 'hey, can I tear into your neck and suck your blood?' People don't really go for that stuff."

"Neck?" Pete asked, remembering Patrick on his knees.

Patrick blushed furiously. "The best arteries to use are the jugulars and the femorals - neck or thigh. You get the most blood in the least amount of time."

"Huh." Pete started piecing things together in his head. "So, you need to be able to drink blood from people, but you can't really tell the world what you are. That's where the mind whammy thing comes in?"

"Yeah. It's ..." Patrick bit his lip. The flush spread down to his neck, and he ducked his head to avoid Pete's gaze. "Tearing the skin and piercing the artery hurts, obviously. So, something about the disease also gives us the ability to cloud a person's mind. You know, make suggestions and stuff. You have to learn a trigger to start it. My uncle taps a certain rhythm on a person's arm and it kicks in. I use music because, well, it's the only thing I can really do." Patrick stared out into the empty lot. "It also makes the other person ... feel good. Like, aroused and stuff. My uncle thinks it has something to do with the fact that the disease doesn't manifest until puberty, that it's tied into hormones or something. I don't know. The point is, the only way to drink from someone without hurting them is to ... um, whammy them and drink during sex."

"Wow." Pete stared. "For real?"

"Yeah. Which is why I will never, ever tell my mom that I have to drink from real, live people. And that I have to coerce them to do it. Because that's really creepy."

Patrick looked miserable. Pete patted him on the arm. "If it makes you feel any better, the couple of people I've seen you with have seemed to enjoy themselves, like, a lot."

"Yeah, that's part of the mental thing, leaving them with a fake memory." Patrick glanced over at Pete, eyes narrowing. "Wait, a 'couple' of people?"

Pete quickly withdrew his hand. "I saw you at a party .... anyway," he said, "so you have sex with people, and drink their blood. Does taking the blood do anything bad to them?"

"No." Patrick shook his head. "I only have to take, like, half of what you'd give if you donated blood."

"What about diseases and shit?"

"Apparently, this disease overrides everything else. It's not like I can't die, I just have immunity from catching any diseases from someone I drink from. Somehow. That's what my uncle says, anyway, and it's not like I have any other experts to ask. I guess I'll prove him wrong if I die of AIDS or something."

"So, you take blood, you give orgasms, everyone's happy. I don't see any problems here."

"But I'm making people do things. I only pick people who are, you know, already looking to have sex with somebody, but still, they probably wouldn't be having sex with me if they had the choice." Pete couldn't figure out a way to disagree without sounding like a creep, so he kept quiet while Patrick leaned on his elbows and stared out into space again. "My uncle got lucky. He met my aunt when he was a teenager, and she didn't freak out when he told her what he was. So, she does everything for him during the day and lets him feed from her, and they're happy. Me ... I have to force people. It sucks."

They were silent for a few minutes. Pete listened to the cars passing on the street in front of the restaurant and Patrick sucking the last of his Coke out of the cup. "So," he asked finally, "why did you try to do your mind control thing to me?"

Patrick shrugged. "You weren't going to leave me alone about your band. And it's not like I knew if I could tell you the real reason why I had to say no."

"I still don't know why you said no. Okay, you can't go out during the day. Bands play shows at night. We can rehearse at night. No big deal."

"Right." Patrick rolled his eyes. "And then what happens if the band actually goes somewhere? If we have to travel to get to a show? I've had to ride in my mom's trunk before, I'm not doing that again."

"Huh. I didn't think of that."

"I did. Joe started talking about wanting to be in a band before he brought you over. I shouldn't have played for him." Patrick sighed. "I should have made him forget about me. But ... I don't know, it was nice having someone around, you know? Someone who wasn't my family."

"You want friends? Dude, I can introduce you to people. It's not like any of the people I hang with are going to think twice about the fact that they only see you at night. Most of them sleep until five o'clock anyway."

Patrick looked at Pete, blinking. "What?"

Pete poked him in the arm. "Okay, you're a vampire. You go out at night and have sex with strangers. Kid, that describes most of the people I know. Minus the drinking blood part, but whatever. Just don't try to mind whammy anyone, that's not a good way to make friends."

"I still don't know why it doesn't work on you," Patrick grumbled. "I even asked my uncle, but he's never heard of it not working before."

"I have a hard head."

"Obviously." But Pete caught the ghost of a grin on Patrick's face.

"Hey." Pete raised his eyebrows. "So how much of the stories are true? Garlic? Crosses? Anything?"

Patrick rolled his eyes. "I love garlic. My grandma's crucifix doesn't do anything to me. I'm sure a wooden stake through the heart would kill me, but so would shooting me or stabbing me, as far as I know. I'm not really that motivated to find out."

"Do you at least have a coffin?"

Patrick flipped him off. "My mom bought a big waterproof storage container, I use it if she has to drive me somewhere during the day. It sucks, I don't recommend it."

"Dude, if you're going to be a vampire, you should at least have a coffin. That's lame."

Patrick didn't dignify him with a reply. Instead, he stared out at the horizon, where the pink of the impending sunrise was beginning to mix with the night sky. "Crap. I have to get home." He looked at Pete, then at his shoes. "Can you drive me? I don't think I can walk fast enough."

"Sure."

Patrick was silent for most of the drive home. When they pulled into the driveway, he pulled his cap farther down his forehead. "Thanks," he mumbled.

Pete reached over and pulled the brim back up so that he could see Patrick's eyes. "What are you doing tomorrow night?"

"Huh?"

"Okay, well, tonight. Whatever."

"Um. Nothing?" He shrugged. "I don't have to feed for another week or so."

"I don't care about your feeding." Pete wasn't thinking about Patrick's mouth and his teeth and the smell of sex and blood. He wasn't. "Some of us are going to a movie. You do watch movies, don't you?"

Patrick blinked. For a moment, he looked impossibly young, and Pete felt guilty for the heat that pulsed through his body at the sight of Patrick biting his lip. "Yeah," Patrick said quietly, after a long silence. "I'd like that."

"Cool. I'll see you tonight, then."

After Patrick disappeared around the back of the house, Pete sat in the driveway for a long time. He only moved when the sun was bright enough to bring out the garbage trucks and the dog-walkers.

 

"Dude, why don't you use my place?"

Pete didn't think he'd regret the offer. He was doing Patrick a favor, right? "I have a bed, you know," Pete continued. "You tell me when you're going out to feed, I'll make sure the sheets are clean."

"Really?" Patrick looked dubious.

"Yeah. Here, have my extra key, mi casa es su casa, whatever." In the six months they'd been hanging out, Pete had watched Patrick disappear into every dark alley and shitty bathroom in the city, it seemed. It was stupid for him to have to feed in nasty places when Pete had a perfectly good apartment nearby. Well, an apartment that was marginally less nasty than club bathrooms, anyway.

"I can't drive," Patrick pointed out. "How am I supposed to get there?"

"I'll teach you to drive."

"I can't get a license. None of the DMV places are open at night, dumbass."

"I know a guy who knows a guy who can make good fake IDs. And, well, just don't speed or anything."

Patrick was dubious.

The months wore on. Pete started playing bass in a band with Joe and a couple of other guys they rounded up. They're weren't really much good, but Pete enjoyed the chance to fling himself around the stage every so often. Patrick came to all of their shows. Sometimes, Pete caught sight of him at the edge of the small crowd, looking hungrily at the stage. Pete tried to talk him into the band a couple of times, but Patrick was insistent. "I can't call that much attention to myself," he said sadly. "The more people notice me, the more they'll notice I do weird things."

"Like anyone in this crowd will blink at someone doing weird things."

"Oh, yeah, what happens when someone's friends notice that they disappear with the dude from the band? And that person can't remember what happened? I can't exactly whammy an entire bar full of people."

"You and your stupid logic, man." Pete made a face. "It sucks. You totally need to be in a band."

"I know." Patrick's expression was enough to convince Pete to never bring the subject up again.

A week or so later, Patrick found Pete after a show and tapped him on the shoulder. He leaned close to talk in Pete's ear. "Hey, I'm leaving."

His voice was lower than normal, and Pete repressed a shiver. "What?"

"There's a guy, he has a car. I can still go to your place, right?"

"Um. Yeah, go ahead, have fun."

Pete watched him walk away and grab the hand of a guy who was easily five years older than Patrick. Which, of course, he himself was, but he wasn't the one ... and that wasn't a thought Pete was going to follow, no sir. Still, he watched Patrick's ass until the two of them disappeared behind the crowd. Then, he threw himself into the mosh pit with reckless abandon.

After that, Patrick started using Pete's apartment for feeding on a regular basis. Most of the time, he timed his feeding schedule around shows that Pete's band played - that way, nobody else would be hanging around the apartment, and no one was likely to walk in at the wrong time.

A lot of people had a key to Pete's place. "You'd be a security expert's worst nightmare," Patrick had scoffed.

"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure the first thing a security expert would tell me is 'keep the vampire out', so fuck off." Pete had cuffed Patrick on the back of the head. He'd gotten shoved into a nearby table for his troubles, while Patrick scanned the club's crowd to make sure no one had overheard Pete.

Pete tried not to think about it. He did. He was self-aware enough, though, to realize that his own tendency to give and receive back-alley blow jobs coincided pretty often with Patrick's feeding schedule. He wasn't stupid. And coming home to sheets that smelled of sex and blood didn't help. "Jesus, can you at least do the laundry when you're done?" he griped one night when he came home.

Patrick, who had been sitting on the couch, looking at the floor and rubbing his neck, looked up. He looked tired, Pete noticed. Not really like a guy who'd just gotten laid a half hour earlier. "Sorry?" he said tentatively. "I can stop coming back here ..."

"No, it's fine, just change the sheets, will you?"

After that, his bed stopped smelling like Patrick. Pete tried to be grateful.

 

Months passed. Patrick spent more time at Pete's apartment than he did at home, which made his mother look suspiciously at Pete for a while. Eventually, though, she settled on being grateful that Patrick had a friend. "There aren't many people," she said to Pete one day, when Patrick was out of the room, "who would ... understand him."

Pete shrugged. "It's not his fault. It doesn't bother me."

It wasn't entirely true, but Patrick's mother didn't really need to know the ways in which Patrick's condition bothered him, Pete figured.

Pete lost his band - they hadn't been all that good, anyway, and Joe went off to play in a metal band with a couple of kids who used to come see Arma Angelus play - but gained a business with some friends, booking and promoting shows at the clubs he used to play. He was good at it, and he got a charge out of seeing bands he liked gain audience every time they played. "My big mouth should do somebody some good," he told Patrick, standing at the back of a club one night.

"Doesn't it feel weird? Not being up there?"

Pete felt a twinge low in his chest. "Nah," he said. "I suck, nobody wants to listen to me."

Patrick just poked Pete absently in the side and kept watching the stage. Pete slung an arm over his shoulder. Patrick didn't bother to shrug him off anymore; Pete could feel him lean almost imperceptibly closer. His body was warm - "I'm not dead, jackass, so why the hell would I be cold-blooded?" "I don't know, I just thought vampires were supposed to be all cold and shit." - making Pete feel even hotter than the airless club had previously felt. The sweat made Pete's t-shirt cling to his skin. He saw a widening patch of wetness on the front of Patrick's shirt. If he was still enough, Pete could feel the rhythm of Patrick's heartbeat underneath his skin and his shirt, even over the pounding bass drum. All he had to do was pick out the irregular rhythm; Patrick's heart always beat fast, every time Pete noticed it. He figured it was a vampire thing. Of course, as far as he'd known before, vampires didn't have heartbeats, so what did he know?

"You're too hot," Patrick said in his ear, to be heard over the music.

Pete shuddered, but masked it with a movement that pulled Patrick even closer. "Thanks, baby, you're really sexy, too," he yelled back, leering.

Patrick rolled his eyes. Pete leaned his head against Patrick's. He could feel Patrick sigh dramatically, but he didn't move away. They stood like that for the next two songs.

 

Pete got a girlfriend. Sabrina was small, blonde, and entirely frightening, and she gave the best fucking blow jobs Pete had ever had. She definitely helped take the edge off of Pete's ... complex reactions to Patrick. Which was good, really, because right around that time Patrick turned into the biggest asshole imaginable. "For someone who has as much sex as you do," Pete observed one night, "you're certainly a pissy little bitch."

"Fuck off," Patrick muttered, flipping him off. "Shut up, I'm trying to write here."

Pete looked over Patrick's shoulder at the notes he was scratching onto sheet music. Part of him wanted to ask Patrick to sing the melody for him, but irritation won out. "Seriously, dude, I told you we were coming back here."

"So?"

"So, having sex in Sabrina's twin dorm room bed sucks ass. Especially since her roommate's in the middle of studying for finals. I told her we could have some alone time."

He didn't mention the part where Sabrina didn't like Patrick very much. "He's creepy," she said once, which had led to a three-day separation. In the end, she agreed to not mention Patrick, and Pete agreed to not make her hang out with Patrick too often. It wasn't like Patrick didn't already know how she felt. The feeling was definitely mutual. When they'd entered the apartment that night and seen Patrick hunched over the card table that doubled as a dining room table, Sabrina had scowled at Pete and immediately disappeared into the bathroom. Pete knew he had a very limited amount of time before she stormed out and he was left alone with his right hand for the night.

"Then make her roommate study in the library. I'm busy."

"Don't you have your mommy's entire basement to write that shit?" Pete asked, smacking the side of Patrick's head.

He saw Patrick flinch. Patrick's hand scrawled a couple more notes. Pete could hear him softly humming under his breath. "Oh, for fuck's sake," Pete said. "Who are you trying to whammy? Because you know it doesn't work on me."

Patrick slammed his pencil down and grabbed the paper and his music. "Nobody," he said through gritted teeth. "It's just goddamned music."

Pete wanted to snatch the music back, make Patrick show him what he was working on. But then the toilet flushed, and frustration bubbled back up. "Go home. I want to get laid."

"Fine. You always were better at fucking than music."

Pete scowled as Patrick stormed towards the door. "Yeah, sue me for wanting to be the one having sex in my bed for once. Why don't you go..." Pete bit off the last bit of his suggestion when he heard the bathroom door open. "... get something to eat," he finished.

Patrick turned around. "I plan on it," Patrick growled. He stared at Pete for a long moment. Pete blinked, his eyes fixed on Patrick's mouth, on the teeth that ran briefly over his lower lip. When Patrick's mouth closed into a hard line, Pete's gaze jerked back up to Patrick's eyes. Behind his glasses, his eyes were the unnatural green that Pete recognized as the vampire - the disease, whatever, Pete called it like he saw it. For a moment Patrick looked like he was going to say something else, but finally he shook his head and turned, slamming the door behind him.

That night, lying back on the bed with Sabrina's warm, enthusiastic mouth wrapped around his dick, Pete closed his eyes and could swear he felt the blood pumping through every corner of his body. When her nails dug into his thigh, biting hard enough that he could feel the indentations in his skin, he came without warning. She was a little irritated with him for that, but he made it up to her, multiple times. Later, with Sabrina asleep beside him, Pete rolled over and inspected the marks her nails had made in his flesh. He ran his fingers over the tiny red dents, and for just a moment, he imagined what it would feel like to have sharp teeth slide into that spot.

Pete didn't sleep that night.

 

Joe got his first apartment, and threw a housewarming party to celebrate. Thirty or so people jammed into the tiny one-bedroom, with people playing guitars and singing loudly enough to occasionally earn knocking on the walls from Joe's neighbors. Someone must have shoved a couple of shots down Patrick's throat while Pete wasn't looking, because he couldn't think of why else he'd suddenly be hearing Patrick's voice singing from the bedroom.

The entire party seemed to stop when Patrick started to play. Pete shoved his way through a mass of people in the doorway to see Patrick sitting on the edge of the bed, playing Joe's acoustic guitar and singing a song Pete recognized as the one Patrick had spent the last few weeks working on. He suddenly felt unreasonably jealous - if he closed his eyes, he could see Patrick sitting on his couch, singing to himself … and to Pete. Somehow, this voice, this song belonged to him … and that was crazy, because it was Patrick's song and he could sing it to anyone he chose. He just never chose to sing it to anyone other than Pete, until now.

"Wow," the girl standing next to Pete murmured. "Is he in a band or something?"

"No, he's not," Pete said shortly.

"He should be."

When Patrick's voice trailed off at the end of the song, the room erupted in applause. Patrick looked up, his face turning bright red. Joe shouted at him from his seat in the bathroom, "See, dude, I told you that you should be on stage!"

Several voices chimed agreement. "I know a band that needs a singer," someone said from the other side of the room. "You should meet them!"

Pete looked at Patrick, whose eyes were focused firmly on his lap. "He's not interested," Pete said, but the room was too loud, everyone talking to each other. The guy who had spoken - someone Pete didn't recognize, which was unusual in this crowd - had pushed his way to the bed and sat down on the edge next to Patrick. "Seriously," he said, "let me give you my number, we should totally talk. You need to be in a band!"

"I can't ..." Patrick said, waving a hand in the air.

Pete sat down on the stranger's other side. "Hey, dude, you know bands that I don't know? I'm Pete," he said, sticking out his hands. "Pete Wentz. I'm a promoter."

"Oh, yeah, I've heard about you! Joe said he'd introduce us." The guy shook Pete's hand. "I'm Nick, nice to meet you."

"What band were you talking about over there?"

"Well, I don't necessarily want to talk them up until they're ready. Which is why ..." Nick turned back around and gave a start. "Where'd he go?"

Patrick was no longer on the bed. Nick looked around in confusion, but the room was quickly clearing. Pete looked over at the doorway. For a moment, his vision seemed blurry; when he rubbed his eyes, one of the blurry forms in the doorway resolved into Patrick, moving slowly, taking care not to touch anyone as he moved. When he'd made it into the hallway, he glanced back over his shoulder. When he saw Pete staring at him, his eyes widened. Pete shrugged.

"Hey, Joe," Nick said. Joe, who stood right next to Patrick, looked back into the room. "Did you see where Patrick went?"

Joe looked into the bedroom, then off into the hallway. His eyes were nearly level with Patrick's cap, only a half a foot away. Patrick remained still. "Nope, he must have gone outside or something," Joe said.

"Huh." Nick turned back to Pete. "Does he do that a lot? Disappear?"

Pete watched as Patrick moved slowly out of his view. "Yeah, you could say that."

 

There was another party - somewhere, some night, Pete forgot the details almost as soon as he got there. But everyone was there; Patrick, Joe, Nick, a bunch of bands Pete booked, Sabrina ... and unfortunately, some other guy Sabrina was fucking. There was also a lot of whiskey and beer. Which is how Pete found himself in the front yard, punching Sabrina's other dude square in the face.

The next few minutes were a blur of anger and pain. Sabrina screamed. Pete groaned as his entire right side met the concrete. He saw stars and pretty much nothing else until he felt two people grab his arms and haul him to his feet. He vaguely heard Nick's voice. "Dude, can you get him home?"

And then Patrick - "Yeah, I've got him. Come on." The last was apparently directed at Pete, because he felt a tug on his arm.

He turned in the direction Patrick's voice had come from and blinked several times. A yellow light obscured everything behind Patrick, blurring the edges around his body in a halo-like effect. "Is that part of your thing?" he asked. His tongue felt heavy. "The light?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I've never seen that light before. All around you. Is that a vampire thing?"

Patrick's mouth tightened, and somewhere behind Pete, Nick laughed. "You're seeing the light from the front door, asswipe," Patrick said, "and I know you're wasted if you're talking about vampires."

"But," Pete protested, "you are a vampire, and your eyes get all weird, so why wouldn't you have light, too?"

Nick's laughter got louder. Patrick jerked Pete's arm hard enough that the stars danced in his eyes again. "Jesus Christ," Patrick muttered. "You need to never drink again."

"Are you sure you're okay with him?" Nick asked. "I mean, you're not going to drink his blood and leave him to die, are you?"

Patrick rolled his eyes, but even in his drunken haze, Pete could see a spark of terror flash in his eyes. "You're really funny, jackass. Go back inside and make sure nobody's going to call the cops or something, will you?"

"Good luck, man."

Patrick shoved Pete towards his car. "Can you drive?" Pete asked.

"You should know, you taught me."

"Yeah, that's why I asked." When they reached the car, Pete leaned his arms on the hood and bent his head between them for a moment, while a wave of dizziness passed. He groaned when he stood back up. "I'm sorry," he said as Patrick's hand pressed against his back to steady him.

"Do you need to go to the hospital?" Patrick asked. "You might have a concussion."

"No, I'm just drunk, I'm fine." Pete waved his hand in the air, and the movement nearly made him stumble off the curb.

"Get in the car," Patrick sighed.

In the car, Pete closed his eyes and started talking. If he talked, he didn't notice the feeling of his brain doing somersaults inside his head. "She didn't want me. Not the real me. Wanted the guy I pretend to be. I pretend really good, until I don't any more. I wish I could pretend again. Easier to be ... not me. Someone else. Someone normal."

"What the hell is normal, anyway?" Patrick muttered, almost to himself. "Not that I'd ever recognize it."

"Whatever it is, it isn't me. Us. You're not normal. You make me feel normal. Or, wait, just ... I don't know. My head hurts. When you're around it feels like I'm sorta okay. I don't pretend. I like not pretending." Patrick remained silent, so Pete kept talking. "I can't get anyone else to stick. Nobody but you. Sabrina didn't like me once she knew me. I wasn't good enough. That other guy probably listened better. He's definitely taller. Probably gives better head, too. I bet he's better than me in every way. I'm not very good. Can't play bass. Can't keep a girl. Can't even punch a guy properly."

Patrick still wasn't talking. Pete wanted to look at him, but opening his eyes seemed like too much effort. So, he drowsed in a half-sleep until the car jerked to a halt. "Hey, you didn't kill us, good job."

"Fuck off," Patrick said, his voice getting farther away. Then the car door slammed. Pete wondered if it would be okay if he just slept in the car. Then the door next to him opened, and Patrick was tugging on his arm again. "Get up. I can't actually haul your ass all the way upstairs."

Pete opened his eyes. Patrick loomed above him, scowling. His eyes were the freaky green that Pete associated with vampire. Pete frowned, confused. And then he remembered. "Dude, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to talk about the vampire thing in front of everyone. I was drunk, just tell them that."

"I think they know you were drunk, dude." Patrick yanked on his arm, hard enough that Pete felt it in his shoulder blade. "Get the fuck up."

Pete grabbed onto Patrick's arm and hauled himself out of the car. The ground swayed underneath him. He leaned into Patrick and put an arm around his shoulders to steady himself. For a moment, Patrick's face was only inches away from Pete's. He stared at Pete - or, not at him, but at a spot somewhere above Pete's eyes. Pete could hear him inhale slowly through his nose. Patrick's mouth was open slightly, and his eyes were so green that Pete felt like he might fall in and drown. An instant later, Patrick's gaze snapped back to the front door of the apartment building, away from Pete. He could feel Patrick's body tremble slightly. Patrick stepped away, leaving Pete swaying alone. Pete took a couple of deep breaths, and the ground slowly came to a stop. Patrick motioned him forward. "Inside," he growled. "And try not to kill yourself."

Pete made it into his apartment without falling, which he considered an accomplishment. He did not, however, make it to the couch; instead, he leaned against the wall next to the front door and slid down until he was sitting, his knees in front of him. He rested his chin on his knees and watched Patrick as he tossed the keys on the coffee table and went into the kitchen. A moment later, he emerged with a bottle of water. "Not thirsty any more," Pete said.

"Drink it anyway. You're an asshole when you're hung over."

"I'm an asshole anyway. And how do you know what I'm like when I'm hung over? I'm always hung over in the morning, and you're never here in the morning."

"Your hungover assholishness lasts into the evening. So drink the damned water." Patrick tossed the bottle at Pete. It hit Pete in the side of the leg, and then rolled off across the hardwood floor. Patrick sighed and chased it down. He sat down next to Pete and handed him the bottle. "I'm sorry," he said.

"What for?"

"That Sabrina was cheating on you. That sucks."

"Yeah. Yeah, it does." Pete pressed the cool bottle to his forehead. When he pulled it away, he saw a smear of red mixed with the condensation. "I'm bleeding," he observed in surprise.

"Yeah." Patrick let out a humorless laugh. "Shockingly, that's what happens when your head hits concrete."

Pete touched his finger to his head. Just above his eye, he could feel a patch of shredded skin that was probably going to hurt like a motherfucker when he wasn't wasted. "Ow," he said, even though he couldn't feel the pain. "Am I bleeding anywhere else?"

"There's a cut on your arm, and one on your chin," Patrick said.

"Ow," Pete repeated. "And my whole body kinda aches. This is going to suck tomorrow."

"Probably. You sure you don't need a doctor?"

"Nah, just fetch me a bottle of Advil and some band-aids."

Patrick didn't move for a moment. Pete looked over at him. Patrick was looking at the floor, breathing too evenly to be entirely calm. "You okay?" Pete asked, poking at Patrick's face.

Patrick made a strangled noise and grabbed Pete's wrist. Suddenly, Pete realized the fingers he used to poke Patrick were smeared with his own blood. Patrick stared at Pete's hand for a long moment, his uncanny green eyes unfocused. Pete went still, staring at Patrick's eyes and the small smear of blood that now shone brightly on the pale skin of Patrick's cheek. He remembered how it had looked, how the red and pale skin mixed around his mouth when he'd fed. For one second - one long, terrifying, exhilarating second - Pete wanted desperately to touch his fingers to Patrick's open mouth, to touch the bloody tip of his finger to the tip of Patrick's tongue, just to see what would happen.

Then, Patrick dropped Pete's hand and leapt to his feet. He disappeared into the bedroom without saying a word. Pete slumped back against the wall and closed his eyes. The room still spun behind his eyelids.

A few minutes later, he felt something drop into his lap. He opened his eyes to see an Advil bottle and a box of band-aids. When he looked up, Patrick was grabbing the car keys again. "I'm taking your car. You can come get it during the day tomorrow."

"Where are you going?" Pete clutched the bottle in his hand, rolling it over and over. "It's not even close to dawn yet."

"I have to go." Patrick didn't look at him, but stopped when his hand was on the doorknob. He took a breath, but then shook his head slightly. "I have to go," he repeated.

When he was gone, Pete swallowed six Advil without the water, and curled up on the floor without looking at the band-aids. He woke up like that the next day, dried blood on the floor and an entire drum line pounding in his head. When he struggled to an upright position, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Patrick's number. "Thanks for taking care of me," he said to the voice mail. "I'm sorry." He wasn't sure quite what he was apologizing for.

 

After the night of that first conversation, Pete hadn't actually seen Patrick feed. He tried to stay as far away from Patrick and his partners as possible. Everyone's sanity was safer that way, he figured. So, he honestly didn't mean to come home too early one night. In his defense, Patrick hadn't told him he was coming back to the apartment, and Pete had left the party early after Sabrina and her new guy appeared and proceeded to make out on the couch. Well, okay, the guy throwing the party had kicked him out after he downed three shots of whiskey and started loudly telling the whole room about Sabrina's sexual habits. Now that he was mostly sober, he regretted that a little, but the image of Sabrina straddling another guy was imprinted on his brain like a scar.

All he really wanted was to crash on the couch and watch late night Cartoon Network, but the minute he opened the door, he heard a loud, low-pitched female moan.

He should have backed out the door. But, instead, Pete walked forward until he could see inside the bedroom door, which had been left ajar. The light was low, but the glow from the lamp on the night stand showed him a naked woman spread out on his bed, with Patrick's head buried between her legs. After a moment, Pete didn't even try to pretend to himself that he wasn't fascinated. He crept closer to the door, grateful that the living room lights were all out. He finally stopped when he had a perfect view of Patrick when his face appeared over the girl's torso. His eyes were downcast, focused entirely on whatever it was his tongue was doing to cause his partner to quiver and pant. He had one hand gripped firmly on the girl's thigh, but the other had disappeared to somewhere underneath his mouth - also contributing to the rhythmic gasps she was making, Pete knew. Patrick bent his head to press his tongue firmly against her clit, causing his hair to fall forward and shine bright red in the lamplight. Pete's fingers itched with the urge to touch it, to feel Patrick's head underneath his hands as his mouth ... that thought, coming at the same time as a long, high-pitched "oh, god" from the girl, made Pete press the heel of his hand firmly against the base of his cock to steady himself.

Patrick started to hum against the girl's skin. Pete recognized the tune as the chorus of a song Patrick had been working on the night before; he could see Patrick chewing on a pencil, staring at the glow of his laptop and frowning at the screen while he hummed notes, determined to find the right combination. But then Patrick lifted his head, and all Pete could see was his dark, focused stare as he watched his partner slowly stop shaking from pleasure and relax back onto the bed. He sat up on his knees - he was still fully dressed, Pete noted - and crawled up the length of her body.

Pete watched as Patrick smoothed a patch of skin at the base of her throat with his thumb. His lips curled back, and Pete could see the shadow of the two points of his teeth, which were never visible at any other time. Then he bent over her neck, and all Pete could hear was a soft sucking sound.

The girl wasn't entirely still. Pete watched as her body arched slightly towards Patrick in rhythm with his feeding. She breathed in time with Patrick's mouth as well, small shallow breaths that caused her breasts to make tiny movements against the fabric of Patrick's shirt. Patrick only fed for a minute or two - Pete never remembered to ask him how he knew when to stop. Pete silently counted the number of breaths the girl took until Patrick finally lifted his head once again. A drop of blood dripped from his lower lip; Patrick swiped it with his finger and sucked it from his own skin. Pete's breathing stilled. Patrick wiped his mouth - thankfully, onto a towel he'd placed on the bed, Pete was grateful that his sheets were never bloody - and leaned back over to lick the wound closed.

Patrick slid back down between her legs. Pete listened to the soft melody Patrick sang as he rubbed his thumb over the girl's clit and bent his head low enough that it disappeared from Pete's view. The sudden sound the girl made was incoherent and urgent.

When she finally sat up, sated, the girl reached for Patrick. She fisted a hand in his t-shirt and pulled him close for a kiss. Pete watched their mouths meet in a brief, wet slide, Patrick's chin still glistening with moisture. The girl reached down and slipped a hand underneath Patrick's t-shirt. He pulled back from the kiss with a soft groan, one that sounded more pained than blissful to Pete's ears. He took her face in his hands sang a few words under his breath, low enough that Pete couldn't discern the song. She stilled, and her hand dropped from his body. Pete saw Patrick's mouth twist in a grimace, and he took a deep breath. "Get dressed," he said in a louder voice than Pete expected, "leave, and forget you were here."

Patrick held the girl's face in his hands for a split second longer, and then sat back on his heels and sang another soft phrase. He watched in silence as the girl climbed off the bed and collected her clothing. She didn't seem to even notice he existed until she was fully dressed, when he slid off the bed and handed her a small purse. She looked at him, but they didn't say anything. Patrick simply gestured towards the door.

Pete scrambled to press himself against the wall next to the door where the shadows would obscure him. Unless Patrick decided to turn on the light in the living room, then he'd be screwed. But luckily, he walked the girl to the door in silence. She left without saying anything - goodbye, thanks for the orgasm, call me sometime, anything. Patrick left a hand on the door for a moment after shutting it behind her. Pete's gaze wandered down his body; the obvious bulge in his jeans said that he wasn't necessarily all that comfortable. So, Pete wondered, why the hell had he sent the girl away?

Patrick stalked back to the bedroom without noticing Pete standing against the wall. A moment later, Pete heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper lowering, followed by a strangled noise that barely sounded human. Pete inched his way back to the door frame and carefully peered around it. Patrick knelt on the bed, cock in hand, eyes closed and mouth twisted in a grimace. Each time he exhaled, Pete could hear Patrick let out a small, plaintive whine that shot straight down his spine and caused Pete to grasp the doorframe in order to keep himself from sticking a hand inside his own jeans. He couldn't look away, though. Couldn't stop watching Patrick's fist sliding up and down his dick, the light flickering across the pale skin of his forearm as it moved, his wet mouth as it opened to gasp more air into his lungs. Pete entertained a brief thought of climbing up on the bed and kissing that mouth, taking Patrick's cock in his own hand and hearing the incoherent noises resolve into his name.

Pete didn't realize the groan he heard was his own voice until he saw Patrick's eyes snap open. He jerked back against the wall, out of view of the door. Seconds later, he heard a hoarse, drawn-out "fuuuuuck," along with a soft wet sound that made Pete close his own eyes and try to picture every ugly crone of a teacher he'd ever had in order to block out the mental image of Patrick coming in Pete's own bed. He stood there stone-still while he listened to the bed creak with movement, followed by Patrick's footsteps heading towards the bathroom. He was just about ready to creep back towards the front door - he'd pretend he was never there, that he was just coming home - when Patrick's voice stopped him. "I know you're there, Pete." His voice was shaky.

"Um." Pete stopped in the middle of the dark living room. "Sorry?"

"You're a gigantic fucking creep, you know that?"

Pete rubbed his temple as he slowly turned around. The twisting feeling in his stomach made him snap, "My apartment, remember?"

"Fuck off." Patrick's voice echoed through the apartment. "You could have turned around and walked out."

Pete took a deep breath. "Yeah. I know. I'm sorry."

Something slammed into the sink in the bathroom. Pete hoped whatever it was wasn't breakable. Or easily bruised. "Fuck you," Patrick said, his voice small.

Pete winced. "I'm really sorry," he repeated. "Um. Do you want me to leave?"

Patrick's voice was mocking. "It's your goddamned apartment, remember?"

They both fell silent for several minutes. Pete stood in the middle of the living room, weighing his options. He heard Patrick moving around in the bathroom - the water running, things clinking against the porcelain sink. Finally, Pete shrugged and took a step towards the bedroom. "Okay, I'm coming in."

"Good for you." Patrick's voice was muffled.

The overhead light switched on as Pete walked into the bedroom, causing him to squint and rub his eyes. When he focused, he saw Patrick standing in the bathroom doorway, dressed in his t-shirt and boxers, a towel clutched in his hand. "How long did you know I was there?" he asked.

"You first." Patrick tossed the towel on the bathroom floor and crossed his arms over his chest. "When did you get here?"

"Um. While she was still here?"

"I figured that out." Patrick closed his eyes and leaned his head against the door frame. "You weren't supposed to come home."

"I know. I said I was sorry."

Patrick opened his eyes and shrugged. His cheeks were stained red; from exertion or embarrassment, Pete didn't quite know. Probably a combination of the two. Pete remained silent while Patrick crossed to the bed and started stripping the sheets. Pete moved forward. "I can-"

"I've got it," Patrick interrupted, not looking up. "I always do. I promised."

Still, Pete walked over to the closet and took out a clean set of sheets. Silently, he started fitting them to the bed while Patrick shoved the dirty sheets into the laundry bag in the corner of the room. He left the top sheet in a heap on the top - what the hell, he always kicked it off in his sleep anyway - and turned to face Patrick, who now stood next to the door to the living room, watching him warily. "Okay, you can hit me if you want, but I have to ask," Pete finally said.

"What?"

"Why did you send her away? You know, before?"

Patrick sighed and pushed his glasses farther up his nose. "Fuck," he muttered.

"No, actually, you didn't, that's the question."

Patrick rolled his eyes and walked out of the bedroom. Pete followed him, flipping on lights as he went. He flopped down on the couch and watched Patrick cross to the kitchen and open the refrigerator. When Patrick tipped the carton of orange juice to his mouth, Pete couldn't resist. "You did wipe your mouth off in there, right?"

"No, jackass, you've totally been drinking blood for your breakfast for months. You'll be a vampire in no time."

"I knew you had some kind of evil plan." When Patrick came back to the living room and sprawled in the chair across from him, Pete turned serious again. "You had a gorgeous girl in there at your beck and call. And you ended the night with your own hand? Why the hell would you do that?"

Patrick covered his face with his hands. "None of your fucking business."

"Seriously, was she that bad? What was wrong? Did she have dog breath or something?"

"You're a nosy fucking bastard."

"Is this news?"

Patrick uncovered his face and looked at the ceiling. He was silent for several moments before speaking. "Because ... because it wouldn't have been right."

"Excuse me?"

"Listen." Patrick sighed deeply, then curled his legs up underneath him and looked at Pete. "I know everything I do is technically wrong. You know, morally. I'm coercing people to come with me and give me their blood without their permission. So, I do everything I can to make it ... well, less wrong, I guess? I only pick people who are looking to get laid, and I make sure they ... you know, enjoy themselves for their trouble."

"Yeah, I saw that." It was probably the wrong time to tell Patrick that he looked like he was really good at giving head. Some other time, maybe, when it sounded more like a joke, and was less likely to make Pete embarrass himself all over the couch. "That still doesn't answer the question."

"I guess it just feels like ... more of a violation, if I make them give me blood and get me off. Like I'm taking more than I'm giving." Patrick looked away. "It really feels like I'm being creepy and horrible most of the time. I'd feel even more creepy and horrible if I took more pleasure in it. If that makes any sense."

"Not really."

Patrick sighed again. "My mind control is kind of like putting something in their drink, don't you think? Making them more susceptible to what I want to do?"

"Huh." Pete frowned and thought about it for a minute. "So, let me make sure I understand. When do you start the mind whammy thing?"

"What?"

"When do you start your little humming thing and start making them forget what you're doing? Do you do it when you meet them? When you're trying to get them to go home with you?"

"No ..." Patrick looked confused. "I do it when I'm getting ready to feed. To make sure it doesn't hurt."

"So, everyone is coming back here and getting naked with you of their own free will, right?"

"Well ..." Patrick's eyebrows furrowed. "Yeah, I guess."

"So you're not whammying them into the sex, then, just the blood."

"I guess ..."

"No guessing. There are a whole lot of people who are more than willing to get nasty with a cute young redhead, your little power thing has nothing to do with it." Pete grinned when Patrick blushed and refused to meet his gaze. Pete thought for another second, then said, "Dude, have you ever gotten off with anyone other than yourself?"

"Fuck off."

"Is that a no?"

"No, it's not." Patrick still didn't look at him. "When I started ... I was fourteen, I had no idea what the hell I was doing with any of it. I had sex with a lot of really disgusting people, the kind of people who ... well, the kind of people who don't say no to a fourteen year old." He shivered. "But then a guy I knew when I used to go to school invited me to his band's concert one night, and I figured out that there were places I could maybe be feeding from people my own age. But it felt different, you know? Taking from guys who were mostly predators was way different than seducing kids from school, or even college kids. Suddenly I was the predator, and that sucked."

"Yeah, I can see that."

"There was a guy who used to hang around the all-ages shows I went to. College age, maybe older. He used to get underage kids - girls and boys, always the most innocent ones - drunk enough to go out to his car and suck his dick. I heard a couple of kids talking about him afterwards, and he'd never do anything that made them feel good, he just kicked them out of the car and left after he got off. He was a jackass. So, one night, I sat down next to him and pretended to let him do the whole routine with me. I kept pouring the drinks on the floor when he'd look away. So, we went outside, and I fed from him, and while he was still under control, I made him suck my dick." Patrick stared off into space, his mouth a thin line. "Then I told him he'd never think about touching a teenager ever again. I never saw him after that. And it was the last time I got off when I fed. I didn't want to be him."

"Jesus." Pete leaned forward. "You're not like that, you know that, right?"

"How do you know?"

"Because I just do."

"That's convincing." Patrick snorted. "I'm just ... it works my way, okay? I get my blood, and I don't feel like a total disgusting creep. It's fine."

Abruptly, Patrick stood up and headed for the bedroom. When he returned, he was wearing his jeans and sneakers. "Where are you going?" Pete asked.

"Home. It's getting late. I'll take the bus."

"Fuck off, I'll drive you." Pete stood up and grabbed his keys before Patrick could protest.

Later, the sunrise crept in through the cracks around the window shade as Pete lay awake in his bed. On the night stand next to him, his phone blinked with several unanswered texts from Sabrina. She was, in fact, the farthest thing from his mind when he finally closed his eyes and wrapped his hand around his dick.

 

Life went on. Pete fucked his way through a generous handful of guys and girls, ones whose names he barely remembered the next time he saw them. Once, he caught Patrick staring at him as he threw his arm around a guy around Patrick's height. Pete looked away quickly and whispered a proposition in the guy's ear, something filthy that had half a chance of getting him punched in the stomach for his trouble. Luckily, though, the guy was interested. Pete let the guy fuck him that night; he propped himself up on his elbows and buried his face in a pillow, making noises that he hoped were muffled enough to not sound like actual words. Or names.

He and Patrick were careful to always miss each other during the appropriate times.

Meanwhile, Patrick found himself a job, flipping burgers on the overnight shift at a greasy diner. It was a horrible job, but Patrick took a lot of pride in being able to finally pay for his own dinners when he went out with their friends. A couple of months into the job, on one of Patrick's rare nights off, Pete poked him as they sat at a table in the back of a club. "So, are you going to live in your mom's basement for the rest of your life?"

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "You have a better idea?"

"My lease is up next month. I found this place down the road that has a two bedroom apartment in the basement. The windows are small, it'd be pretty easy to black them out."

"You want me to move in with you?"

"Why not? You're always at my place anyway. And now you can pay rent, so it's time to become a big boy and let go of mommy's apron strings."

Pete got himself knocked to the floor and put into a headlock for that statement, but a month later, they moved into their new apartment. Patrick's mom gave him a used car as a house warming gift; she didn't ask how he'd gotten his license, and Patrick didn't tell. "She probably knows it's fake," he said to Pete later. "But as long as I don't get arrested, she'll never have to deal with it."

Patrick worked a shift that ended at 4 in the morning - a perfect hour for him, giving him enough time to get home before dawn, sometimes even with a detour to pick Pete up from wherever he'd gotten drunk that night. "You're pathetic," Patrick grumbled one night, as Pete collapsed into the passenger seat.

"I'm having a good time," Pete protested, waving at the group of strangers he'd been partying with as they drove away.

"Which one of them did you fuck tonight?"

"I have no idea," Pete admitted. "And fuck off, like you've got room to talk."

"At least I've got an excuse."

"Oh, that's right. Poor Patrick, fucking his way through the Chicago scene and hating every minute of it."

When they got back to the apartment, Patrick stalked inside without a word. Pete sat in the car for a while, watching the sun creep over the horizon. When he got inside, Patrick's bedroom door was closed and sealed against the daylight.

Pete left a stack of new comic books by his door the next afternoon. The store that carried all the good new titles closed at five o'clock every night, so Patrick never got to go browse himself. When Pete returned with a pizza for dinner a couple of hours later, Patrick was sitting on the couch, reading and drinking a mug of the blood that lived in the small refrigerator in his bedroom. Pete only allowed himself to look at the red stain on Patrick's upper lip for a moment before turning to the kitchen and grabbing a beer. "Get it while it's hot," he said over his shoulder. When he turned back around, Patrick was standing over the dining room table, stuffing a slice of supreme pizza in his mouth. The red of the pizza sauce looked nothing like blood, and Pete was able to breathe normally again.

A couple of months later, Pete had just crawled into bed when his phone rang. He answered without looking at the display. "This had better be good, at five o'clock in the morning."

"Like you ever sleep anyway," Patrick scoffed on the other end of the line. Then his voice turned serious. "Pete, I need you to come pick me up from work."

Pete frowned and looked out his window. The black sky showed the beginnings of the purple tint of sunrise. "Why are you still there?"

"Some inventory nonsense. There's some big corporate visitor today, and they made everyone on the overnight shift say until the stock room was organized. I didn't even know it was so late until I came out and looked outside." Patrick paused, then lowered his voice. "I still have to restock my station before the manager will let me leave. I'm never going to make it out of here before the sun's up. I can't drive myself home when the sun's up, Pete. Help." A note of panic had crept into his voice.

Pete sat up and began feeling around his bed for his pants. "I'll be there in a half hour."

Actually, it took more like forty-five minutes for Pete to make it across town to the restaurant, due to an early emergence of rush hour and lamentably typical Chicago traffic. By the time he made it, the sun was already shining in his eyes as he drove eastward. He pulled into the diner parking lot and looked immediately at the front door. A moment later, he noticed a small figure sitting on the curb close to the side of the building, in the one patch of shade the building afforded. It was a warm summer morning, but the figure was bundled up in a black hoodie that covered every bit of skin it could reach. It took a moment for understanding to creep into Pete's sleep-deprived brain, but once he realized he was looking at Patrick, he screeched across the parking lot so that the passenger side of the car pulled up right next to the building.

When Patrick looked up, Pete saw a bubbling red welt taking up half of his right cheek. The hands that held the hoodie close were also angrily red. Pete leaned across the car and shoved the door open; Patrick ran from the shade to the car as fast as he could, but when he dove into the front seat, Pete smelled a horrible, burning scent in the air. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," he swore as Patrick pushed the front seat back and crouched in a ball on the floor. Pete reached into the back seat and grabbed two hoodies that were balled up on the floor. "Here, use these."

"Just fucking drive already." Patrick's voice was muffled by layers of clothing.

Pete drove away, but the morning sun continued to shine into the windows, and the burning smell just got worse. Finally, Pete swore under his breath and veered off the road into a parking ramp next to a shopping mall. Once they were inside, he tugged at the hoodies covering Patrick. "Come on, the trunk's probably better, right?"

When Patrick looked up at him, Pete cursed some more. The side of Patrick's face oozed some kind of substance that turned Pete's stomach, and he visibly shook as he tried to push himself up to a standing position. He opened the door himself, but collapsed onto the ground outside before Pete could get around the car. "Oh, god," Patrick said weakly when Pete crouched down next to him.

"Come on." Pete put his arms around Patrick's waist and pulled. For such a small dude, Patrick was solid, and it took a concerted effort to get both of them on their feet. But after a moment, Pete managed to shuffled them both around to the back of the car. Pete opened the trunk and let Patrick lean against the bumper. "Can you get in?"

"Yeah," Patrick breathed. Pete frowned doubtfully, but he stepped back as Patrick sat on the edge and slowly pulled his legs up until he slid into the trunk. He looked back at the boxes and tools that littered the trunk, but Pete pushed them all to the side until Patrick had enough room to lay down. "It's a good thing I'm short," Patrick said, his mouth turning upwards into what Pete supposed should be a smile. However, the burn on his face made the expression lopsided enough that Pete winced at the sight. Patrick closed his eyes and pulled his knees close to his chest. "Home," he murmured.

Pete shut the trunk carefully as he looked around the mostly empty ramp, grateful that it was still early enough that no one was around. He drove home as quickly as he could manage, speed limits be damned.

Their apartment building presented another problem - even if Pete parked in the closest spot to the door, Patrick would still have to walk a good thirty feet to the building, and then manage to get to the basement stairs down a sunlit hallway. "Motherfucker," he said, pressing his fingers to his temples. "Think, Pete, think."

A moment later, a solution occurred to him. He got out of the car and went around to the trunk. "Be right back," he said through the keyhole, and hoped Patrick could hear him.

He ran inside, to the first apartment door on the first floor. He knocked urgently. After a minute, a woman wearing a bathrobe and a confused expression answered the door. "I'm so sorry to bother you," Pete said, hoping he looked as unthreatening as possible, "but I live downstairs, and I saw you guys moving in over the weekend. I wonder if you still have the dolly you were using?"

"What?"

"I've got a box in the car that I can't lift by myself, and I really need to get it inside. I'm really sorry," he repeated, "I know it's early, but I have to get this out of my car before I go to work, because we need to haul more boxes around when I get there."

"We had to return the dolly," the woman said, "but if two people can handle it, I can probably get my husband to come out and help you. He's in the shower, but if you can wait ten minutes?"

Pete cursed mentally, but he smiled gratefully at the woman. "You're a lifesaver. I'll wait outside, thank you so much."

After the woman closed the door, he ran quickly downstairs and grabbed the large plastic container Patrick's mom had given them when they moved in. "Just in case," she'd said. Pete offered up a silent prayer of thanks that _someone_ had been prepared at some point.

He ran back outside and crouched down by the trunk. "Patrick? Can you hear me?"

"Yeah," came the muffled response.

"I have your box. You have to get into it, and quickly, because someone's going to come help me carry you inside. It'll probably be better if he doesn't know he's carrying a body."

Pete could hear thumping inside the trunk. "Okay," Patrick said, and his voice was closer to the back of the trunk. "Leave the box open right underneath the bumper, and open the trunk."

He did as instructed, and Patrick climbed out of the trunk with more agility than Pete expected him to. The smell of burning flesh followed him out of the trunk. Pete tried not to gag. Patrick's knees gave out as soon as he was standing inside the box, and he simply lay down in a small ball. Pete grabbed the top and covered him as quickly as he could. He had just managed to seal it entirely when a man with wet hair came walking out of the door. "Hey," Pete said to him. "Thanks, I will totally owe you a beer or something."

The man merely grunted, and grabbed a side of the box. Pete grabbed the other side and prayed that Patrick wouldn't make any sounds. When they lifted the box, Pete felt more than heard the thumping of movement inside. The man grimaced. "What the hell do you have in here?"

"Music gear," Pete improvised. "I have a band."

The man grunted again. Pete took that to mean he bought the explanation, or just didn't care. They carried the box to the door in silence.

When they reached the basement apartment, Pete pushed the door open and they set the box down just inside the door. Pete stuck out his hand. "Thanks, man. I'm Pete. Come down and knock if you ever need anything."

His savior shook his hand, but departed without introducing himself or saying goodbye. Pete barely noticed. As soon as the man was halfway up the stairs, Pete slammed the door and pried the box open. Patrick lay curled in a ball on the bottom, his eyes closed and his jaw slack. Pete's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. Patrick's upturned cheek was a mess of red and pus, and the exposed hand wasn't any better. The burning smell hit Pete in the face when he bent over. He swallowed bile and made a conscious effort not to breathe through his nose. He touched Patrick's arm gingerly. "Patrick. Patrick, we're inside."

Patrick opened his eyes. Or, tried - the swelling on his skin nearly obscured his vision. But, somehow, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. "I need ..." he started, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I need to get to my bedroom."

Pete glanced around. The living room windows were fairly well blacked out, but since Pete occasionally opened them, it wasn't perfect. "Yeah. Can you walk?"

Patrick answered by grabbing the wall and attempting to stand. He shook so badly that Pete leaned over and wrapped an arm around his waist. Patrick winced. "Sorry," Pete murmured.

"Just help."

They got Patrick to the bedroom, with a lot of effort. The minute he could lean on his bed, Patrick started to tug at his clothes. "Off," he said. "They hurt. Fuck. They hurt."

Pete helped him pull off the hoodie and his t-shirt. Underneath, Patrick's skin was a mess. His arms were criss-crossed with bubbling burns; the skin that had been protected by the fabric of his shirt was merely red, the color of a nasty summer sunburn. "Wouldn't let me sit inside," Patrick started babbling. He sat on the bed, and Pete saw him shaking. "The fucking corporate inspector showed up early, and my manager didn't w...want to have me lurking around. So he made me go outside. I tried to stay. I tried to stand inside the door, but the jackass pushed me out." He tried to bend over to untie his shoes, but the movement made him let out a high-pitched whine. Pete knelt at his feet and started to unlace the sneakers. "Thanks," Patrick said, his teeth chattering. "He told me that having employees hanging around in the restaurant was a mark against us. And it was a beautiful day, so I should sit outside." He grimaced as Pete pulled his socks off. "I'm so glad ... glad I had the hoodie."

"I promise I will never make fun of you for dressing in seven hundred layers during the summer again," Pete promised.

"Better not."

Pete stood up and looked at Patrick. "Jesus. You need a hospital."

"Right. And tell them what?"

Pete rubbed his face as Patrick scooted gingerly up the bed. His hands fumbled with the button on his jeans. "What do we do?"

"Call my mom," Patrick said, giving up on his jeans and closing his eyes. "She's got ... stuff. It's never been this bad, though. Oh, god," he breathed as he lay back, letting the sheets touch his burned skin bit by bit.

Pete stood helplessly next to the bed, unable to think of anything he could possibly do to ease Patrick's pain. Patrick found a position that didn't make him grimace any worse than he already was and fell still. Pete couldn't tell if he fell asleep, or if he was just trying to move as little as possible. Eventually, Pete turned around and grabbed his cell phone to dial Patrick's mother.

He managed to wait until he hung up before running to the bathroom to puke.

 

The burns were both better and worse than Pete expected them to be. Better, because after Patrick's mom arrived with a tub full of some nasty looking yellow shit, the bubbling sores stopped oozing grossness, and Patrick seemed to be better able to lay with sheets touching his skin. Pete had ended up with the goop, with a terse admonition to "help him every few hours, and don't let him avoid it." After a few days, the bubbles disappeared entirely, as did the sunburn effect on his torso. He was left with angry red welts crossing his hands, arms and face. Those, he told Pete, would fade eventually.

It was worse, though, because Patrick didn't get out of bed, not even after his burns began to heal. He slept all day and half the night, only emerging from his room to occasionally visit the bathroom. When Pete saw him walking, he looked like an old man, hunched over and shuffling. Pete brought him food and water and blood from the refrigerator, but Patrick talked to him only intermittently. "I guess I don't have a job any more," he said one night, pulling himself up to sit as Pete handed him a mug full of blood.

"You don't need to work for assholes like that anyway."

"Yeah, easy for you to say, you're still earning money."

"We'll find you something."

"Will we?" Patrick took a small drink of blood. He didn't speak again.

A day or so later, something occurred to Pete. He walked into Patrick's bedroom before he left for the show he was helping promote that night. "How long since you've fed?"

"You gave me blood an hour ago."

"That's not what I meant."

Patrick, staring at the TV in the corner of his room, rolled his eyes. "I don't know. A while."

It had been at least five days, Pete knew, because that was how long Patrick had been holed up in his bedroom. "You probably need to feed."

"No shit?" Patrick looked over at him. "And how am I supposed to do that, exactly, when I can barely walk and I look like this?" He gestured to his face, which was still half covered in red welts.

"So, what? You're going to waste away and die or something?"

"Fuck off," Patrick muttered. "I'll think of something."

Pete left the room, but came back a few minutes later. "I can bring someone home for you."

"What?" Patrick scowled. "Whammy one of my friends and take their blood? Not happening."

"Not one of our friends, then. You're not the only one who can score strangers, you know."

"Even worse."

"Why?"

"It just is."

"You need blood."

"I know." Patrick closed his eyes and turned off the TV. "Go. Leave me alone."

Pete wanted to argue, but he was already late to the show. He had promised to watch Nick's friends play that night, and if he missed it, Nick would never forgive him.

At the show, Pete grabbed a spot at the bar in the back of the room. It was a shitty club, falling apart around their ears, but the hardcore kids liked it. Pete absently pulled a loose nail out of the bar and turned it over and over in his fingers while he talked to band members and the club's manager. His mind was only half on the show at hand; he heard the conversations, heard the music, but when he blinked, all he could see was Patrick's too-pale face. He thought about just bringing someone home, but if Patrick wouldn't use his little mind power thing on them, what good would it do? He couldn't force Patrick to feed. Or could he? Pete suddenly could hear his own pulse pounding in his ears.

"Dude," Nick said, waving a hand in front of his face. "Earth to Pete. What the fuck are you doing?"

Pete blinked and looked down. Without realizing it, he'd pressed the tip of the nail into the skin of his wrist, hard enough that a droplet of blood had formed around the rusty metal. He dropped the nail onto the bar and stared at the tiny wound. "It stings," he muttered.

"Pete." Nick looked worried. "You okay, man?"

"Yeah." He pressed his thumb over the injury, and felt his heartbeat just underneath his skin. "Yeah, I'm not the one who's fucked up."

When he walked in the door of the apartment a few hours later, he stepped on a pile of junk mail that had been on the table next to the door when he left. To his left, the table was overturned. He frowned. "Patrick?"

"In here."

In his bedroom, Patrick sat on the floor, his back against his bed. He was dressed in jeans and a clean t-shirt for the first time since Pete had brought him home, but his face was sweaty and his shoulders shook as he pushed a wet strand of hair out of his eyes. "What happened?" Pete asked.

"I need to go out. But I can't. Jesus, I can't." He looked up at Pete, eyes wide. "I tried. Almost made it to the door, but then I fell. My muscles won't work right. I need blood. Real blood, not the dead stuff. I don't know what the fuck to do."

"Take mine." The words were out of Pete's mouth before he could think.

"What?" Patrick's shocked expression would have been funny, if he didn't also look half-dead. "Take ... feed from you? But I can't!"

"Why not?"

"I can't ... whammy you. I can't make it feel good for you. It would hurt."

"So?"

"So, I don't know how much it'd hurt. A lot, I guess. I don't want to hurt you."

"I don't care." Pete knelt on the floor next to Patrick. "Seriously, what other option do you have? You can't go out by yourself, you won't let me bring anyone back here for you. No one knows about your vampire thing but me and your family. Who the hell else are you going to get blood from?"

Patrick stared at him. Pete watched a droplet of sweat roll down his temple. Instinctively, he reached over and caught it with his thumb when it reached Patrick's jawline. Patrick froze at the feather-light touch. Pete watched him breathe open-mouthed for a long minute. Then, he scooted back from Pete's hand. "I can't," he muttered, grabbing blindly for the edge of the bed. "I can't, I just can't, I can't." He pulled himself back up onto the bed with great effort. "Go away," Patrick said desperately. "Oh, god, please go away, Pete."

He curled up on the bed, facing away from Pete. Pete sat on the floor, staring at Patrick's back, which vibrated with each shaky breath he took. "So," Pete said slowly. His voice sounded curiously calm to his ears. "You're just going to lay there and waste away to nothing because ... I'd get hurt a little bit? That is the biggest bunch of bullshit I've ever heard."

He stood up and rested his hands on the bed. Patrick turned over to look at him. "Do you know what it would feel like to have my teeth rip into your artery? Tearing through skin and nerves?"

"Do you?" Pete cocked his head. "I mean, have you ever had anyone rip into your skin?"

"No."

"Then you don't know how much it hurts, either. So the excuse is crap. I'm offering you the chance to get healthy enough to get out of that damned bed. Unless you're too scared."

"Fuck off."

"That's a yes, then."

Patrick flipped back over to stare at the wall. Pete grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. "What's the real reason, huh? Forget that cowardly martyred bullshit. Why would you rather die than take anything from me?"

"I'm not dying, you overdramatic fuck."

"Oh yeah? What happens if you keep going like this? You can't even walk to the front door without falling. Are you just going to be bedridden? Never go anywhere? Be too weak to even make it to the bathroom - or hold a guitar?" Pete watched Patrick's eyes narrow, as the point hit home. "Don't tell me that's not as good as dying."

"I don't know, Pete! Fuck!" Patrick covered his face with his hands. "Why won't you just leave me alone? I can't fucking think right now."

"What's to think about? You need fresh blood. I happen to have a whole lot of it."

"It's not that simple!"

"Sure it is. It seems to be that simple every damned week. Unless you have some other secret criteria for your victims other than 'warm and willing'."

At that, Patrick sat up and pushed Pete hard enough that he stumbled backwards into the dresser. "You asshole. Get out."

Pete rubbed his back where the edge had jammed into his spine. "Wow, that's some energy for someone who can't even get dressed without face-planting."

Patrick's face was red. Pete couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment, anger, or exertion. All three, most likely. "Get out," he repeated. "I don't want your fucking blood. Leave me alone."

"Yeah, I'm getting that." Pete walked back to the edge of the bed and climbed up. He sat on his knees, inches away from Patrick. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, like the roar of the ocean, but he leaned forward until Patrick was forced to scoot back to the other edge of the bed. "If it's the sex thing, I don't fucking care. You get an erection, you jerk off, not a big enough fucking deal to sit here and starve yourself."

"What? That's not what it's about." But the panic on Patrick's face told Pete that was a lie.

"Bullshit." Pete took a deep breath. "It doesn't have to mean anything. This isn't about the sex, it's just about getting you healthy enough to get out of this fucking bed and take care of yourself."

"Fuck." Patrick's voice was barely a whisper. He scooted up to lean against the headboard and covered his face with his hands. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Pete could feel his legs shaking. He took a deep breath and ignored it as he crawled up far enough to throw a leg over Patrick's legs and sit on his thighs. Patrick dropped his hands from his face and stared, eyes wide and mouth open. Pete watched as Patrick's chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm. He grabbed Pete's t-shirt with both hands - to push him away, maybe, but Pete grabbed his forearms. "Stop being a coward and do it," he said, his own voice rougher than he expected. "Please."

Pete angled his neck towards Patrick and closed his eyes. For an interminably long moment, there was silence, but then Pete heard a low groan, and felt Patrick's thumb rub a path along his neck. "Oh, god," he heard Patrick breathe, and then, a bit louder, "Closer," as he tugged on Pete's shirt. Pete scooted up Patrick's legs, dangerously close, until their groins were pressed together. Pete felt the contact like an electric shock, and grabbed Patrick's shoulders to steady himself. He could feel Patrick stirring underneath him already. "I'm sorry," Patrick whispered.

"Do it," Pete said, digging his fingers into Patrick's skin. "Just do it."

He felt Patrick's breath whisper on his neck. Then, sharp teeth punctured his skin, and light exploded behind Pete's eyelids.

It hurt. Oh, fuck, did it hurt. Pete had to brace one hand on the headboard behind Patrick and remind himself not to pull away. He made a strangled sound as he felt Patrick's sharp teeth sink lower, the sensation making him squirm enough that Patrick grabbed his torso to keep him still. And the, he ripped further into the skin - the twin wounds may have only been a half an inch long, but Pete felt every millimeter of his skin ripping apart. By the time Patrick pulled his mouth away, Pete no longer recognized the sounds coming out of his own mouth.

There was a brief moment of silence, a moment in which Pete could feel the blood leaking from his neck, the air stinging the torn skin. Then, he felt Patrick's tongue swipe lightly against his skin, licking the stray trails of blood until he reached the wounds. There, he paused for the briefest of moments before he fastened his mouth over the skin and began to suck.

If anyone ever asked, Pete wouldn't have been able to describe the sensation. His own gasps were all he could hear, shallow gasps that didn't bring enough oxygen to keep the room from spinning. He couldn't hear any noise coming from Patrick. When he opened his eyes, he couldn't see Patrick's face - all he saw was a mass of red hair pressed against his neck, his arms encircling Pete's body. But, he felt - god, he felt everything. He felt the gentle suction against his skin, Patrick's tongue swiping lightly against his skin at odd intervals. He felt the blood flowing, an odd feeling that seemed to originate somewhere in his groin and shoot straight up through his body. Later, when his brain was his own again, he'd wonder about the fact that his dick hardened at the suction; if the blood was flowing elsewhere in his body, wasn't that illogical? But biology was never his strong suit, and in the moment, all he could think about was Patrick and his mouth and the uncomfortable press of his erection against his jeans.

Pete couldn't tell how long they sat there like that, pressed together in an obscene embrace. It might have been two minutes, it might have been two hours. But, eventually, Patrick lifted his mouth from Pete's skin. Pete made a tiny, involuntary noise at the loss. Patrick contemplated Pete's skin for a moment, and then bent his head again and began to lick the sticky blood from around the wound. Pete stared in fascination. It almost reminded him of a cat, Patrick's tongue swiping in quick passes, cleaning the remaining mess away.

When Patrick finally looked up, Pete saw color in his cheeks and white appearing around the edges of his unnaturally green eyes. His mouth was stained dark red - stained with Pete's blood, and damn if that didn't make Pete's cock jump. As Pete stared, Patrick wiped his mouth with his hand and leaned his head back against the headboard, eyes closed. Pete could feel Patrick's erection pressing against his own. His skin buzzed; with Patrick hot and ready underneath him, he could barely remember their earlier conversation. He leaned forward until he could feel Patrick's breath on his face. He stared at Patrick's mouth, but a remaining smear of blood made him rethink his initial impulse. Instead, he ghosted his mouth over Patrick's jawline. He felt Patrick stiffen. When he pulled back, Patrick's eyes were open, his expression wavering between shock and desire. "Let me," Pete begged, resting a hand against the bulging zipper of Patrick's jeans. "Please, let me, I want to … want to watch you, please."

"Oh, god." Patrick's voice was high and desperate. "Oh, god … please, Pete."

Pete didn't need any more encouragement. He wiggled until he had enough room to undo Patrick's jeans and tug them down far enough that he could push his boxers out of the way and grasp his cock. The noise Patrick made when Pete's thumb swiped over the head was, Pete thought, worth every bit of pain he'd been through. Sweat and precome lubricated his hand enough that it was easy to slide his hand up and down, so Pete let himself fall into a rhythm and concentrated on Patrick's face. Patrick's eyes were fixed on the ceiling, his mouth open and gasping for air. "Look at me," Pete chanted softly. "Look at me, Patrick, please look at me."

When Patrick finally looked down and met Pete's eyes, something in Pete's stomach jumped. A few strokes later, Patrick came, eyes wide and fixed on Pete. Pete watched him wordlessly, until Patrick stopped shaking and hung his head down, his chin resting on his chest.

When Pete brought his hand back up, he frowned and pulled his own shirt off to wipe the mess away. He wiped Patrick's stomach, then tossed the shirt on the floor. The touch drew Patrick's attention again. He started to look up at Pete, but his gaze stopped at Pete's torso. Or, more accurately, his crotch, as Patrick's fingers reached out tentatively to touch the button on Pete's jeans. "You're ..."

Pete groaned at the feather-light touch. He grabbed Patrick's wrist and held it a couple of inches away from his body. Patrick looked up at him. "You don't have to," Pete said.

"Do you want me to?"

"If you don't want-"

"That's not what I asked." Patrick's voice was low. Pete could feel the sound of it dancing across his skin. "Do you want me to?"

Pete was still. Then, slowly, he released Patrick's wrist and leaned forward until his forehead rested against Patrick's. From that close, Patrick's eyes were his entire world. "Yes," he breathed, his voice shaky.

Patrick laid his hand flat against Pete's stomach. Pete's muscles trembled at the touch. "God," Patrick whispered. "Seriously."

"Seriously," Pete repeated, "if you're going to do something, do it now, because I'm dying here."

Pete felt more than heard Patrick's soft laugh. He reached down with both hands and undid Pete's jeans. Then, he stopped. "You and your fucking tight jeans. You're gonna have to help me here."

"Oh. Right." Pete climbed off of his lap and wiggled out of his jeans and boxers. When he looked back at the bed, Patrick was sprawled obscenely, his jeans still around his thighs and a red smear at the corner of his mouth. "Holy fuck," Pete said, loudly enough that the sound echoed around the room.

He crawled back onto the bed. Patrick watched him silently until he was straddling Patrick's legs again. "I can't believe ..." Patrick murmured.

"What?"

"Never mind." Patrick spit into his hand and wrapped it around Pete's dick. Pete braced himself on the headboard, his arms stretched on either side of Patrick's head. The wound on his neck still throbbed with a dull pain; somehow, the rhythm Patrick set with his hand seemed to match the beat underneath Pete's skin. Patrick kept his eyes steady on Pete's face. The combination was too much - Patrick's eyes, his hand, the pulse that seemed timed to the rhythm of Patrick's breath. Pete closed his eyes. He couldn't watch, not without breaking into tiny little pieces.

And then Patrick leaned forward and brushed his lips against the wound on Pete's neck.

Pete broke.

When he finally opened his eyes again, Patrick was using a corner of his blanket to wipe his hand. "I have to do laundry anyway," he muttered, not looking Pete in the eye.

Pete opened his mouth to speak, but all his words stuck in his throat each time he tried to take a breath. He ended up panting for air and staring at Patrick as he sat back up and looked at the ceiling. Finally, Patrick looked back down and shoved Pete half-heartedly. "Get off me. It's late."

"What?"

Patrick began to wriggle his legs out from under Pete, until Pete took the hint and climbed over to the edge of the bed. Patrick shoved his jeans all the way off and pulled his boxers back up. "I'm tired. I need to sleep."

"Um. Okay ..."

When Patrick started to pull the blanket from underneath him, Pete was forced to stand up. He picked up his jeans. When he stood back up, Patrick had laid down and curled up, facing the wall on the opposite side of the room. Pete frowned. "Patrick?"

"Go away." Patrick's voice was muffled by the pillow.

Pete stood there for a minute more, staring at the hunched curve of Patrick's back. The trembling that hadn't ended with his orgasm slowly ceased, leaving a numbness that made Pete feel like he was floating somewhere an inch or so above his own body. "Right," he heard himself say, somewhere outside of his body. "You're welcome."

He turned and walked out of the room before he could see if Patrick reacted.

Sleep didn't visit that night, not until Pete had downed four sleeping pills and a shot of Jack Daniels. Afterwards, he drifted in and out of restless dreams that always ended with the sound of his own pulse pounding in his throat.

 

Pete woke up sometime mid-afternoon with a head full of cotton and a need to be anywhere that wasn't the apartment. He got in his car and drove - first to Joe's apartment, where he sat in the parking lot and stared blankly at the windows on the first floor for about twenty minutes before putting the car in reverse and driving away. He drove past Nick's place, his parents' house, even Sabrina's apartment, but eventually parked in a busy mall parking lot and leaned his head against the steering wheel. He sat like that for a long time, listening to a sports talk radio station without understanding a word. When a mall security guard tapped on his window, the sun glimmered rosily on the far western horizon. "It's probably time to move on, son," the guard said kindly. "Maybe you should go inside and get something to eat first, though."

Pete raised his head and stared at his hands. They were trembling. He hadn't eaten anything since the previous night, before ... "Yeah," he said, opening his car door. "Maybe I should."

Eating made the world come into clearer focus. At the very least, being full muffled the sound of his heartbeat, which continued to echo in his ears, and gave him enough energy to drive back home. He sat in his own parking lot for a while, though, and stared at the blacked-out basement window that led to Patrick's bedroom. By the time he walked into the building, dusk had fallen around him like a blanket.

Inside, he found Patrick in the kitchen, putting away dishes from a meal. Pete stood in the living room and watched him for a minute. Then, he cleared his throat. "Feeling better?"

Patrick didn't turn around. "Yeah. Much better."

"Good." When Patrick continued to put dishes in the dishwasher - something he rarely did even when he was well - Pete scowled and flopped down on the couch. He grabbed the remote and flipped the TV on, to an old sitcom rerun. The laugh track and an actress's high-pitched shriek filled the silence. Pete curled his legs underneath him and rested his head on the arm of the couch.

He heard dishes clanking until the commercial break. Then, as some local news celebrity tried to convince him to come to some kind of charity dinner, the other end of the couch dipped. He glanced over at Patrick, whose eyes were closed as he smoothed damp hair off of his forehead. When Pete realized he was staring at Patrick's mouth, he immediately looked back at the television. The commercial advertised a medication for erectile dysfunction. Suddenly, Pete started laughing, his body shaking until he had to bury his face in the pillow next to him. "What?" he heard Patrick ask, irritation plain in his voice.

"Nothing," he said into the pillow. He lifted his head to take a breath. "Jesus."

He looked back at the television. Next to him, Patrick took a deep breath. "Pete." Pete didn't look at him. "Pete. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Pete answered without taking his eyes off the sitcom.

"Seriously, Pete, I ..." Patrick paused. "I don't know. I don't ... just, thank you, I guess."

"I told you, no big deal." After a moment, out of the corner of his eye, Pete saw Patrick stand and walk back towards his bedroom. "Are you going out tonight?" he asked.

"I don't know," Patrick said. "Maybe."

Patrick disappeared into his room. Pete continued to watch bad sitcoms, as one flowed into another, all sounding exactly the same.

An hour or so later, Patrick's bedroom door opened again. Pete glanced over. Patrick still wore his sweatpants and old high school t-shirt, his glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose. He shoved them back up as he looked at Pete. "Okay," he said, as if continuing a conversation that Pete hadn't been a part of, "I need to say this. Tell me you'll listen without interrupting me."

"Say what?"

"Just promise."

"Fine. What?"

"Shit." As Pete watched, the determined look in Patrick's eyes crumpled to uncertainty. But he set his jaw and paced across the room, behind the couch. Pete sat up straight and watched him walk to the opposite wall, then turn around and look at Pete again. "Okay, so. Last night. I said ... you said, no big deal, the sex part wouldn't mean anything to you. But it did. To me, I mean." Patrick's cheeks blazed red, but his gaze remained steady on Pete's face. "I've, um ... okay, I've wanted you for a while, all right? And I know that's probably going to make things really awkward, but I couldn't ... I freaked out last night, after, and you didn't deserve that, so I'm sorry. I just ... it was a lot for me. And you remember it all. I'm not used to anybody remembering. And the fact that it was you ..." Patrick closed his eyes and rubbed his face. "God, I want ... I just want ... fuck, I'm sorry, I'm not making any sense."

Pete reminded himself to breathe. "Are you done?" he asked softly.

"Yeah, I guess." Patrick turned away.

"Okay." Pete climbed over the back of the couch and grabbed Patrick by the shoulders. When he spun Patrick around, Patrick's eyes were wide. "Say it again."

"Say what again?"

"The part where you want me."

"Pete ..."

"Say it."

"I want you, all right? And I know that you don't-"

Patrick's speech was cut off when Pete captured his mouth with his own. Pete could feel the vibration of the surprised noise Patrick made underneath his skin; a moment later, Patrick brought his hands up to cup Pete's face. His mouth opened slightly underneath Pete's. Pete took the opportunity to nip his bottom lip gently. Patrick shuddered, and Pete broke the kiss to rest his forehead against Patrick's. "Thank fucking Christ," he whispered.

"What?" Patrick asked, his voice just as soft.

"You're a moron." When Patrick began to scowl, Pete just tightened his grip on his waist. "That's okay, so I am I."

He kissed Patrick again, taking advantage of his open-mouthed stare to swipe his tongue along the inside of his mouth. When their tongues touched, Patrick groaned and suddenly slid his fingers into the hair at the back of Pete's head. Suddenly, Pete was no longer in control - he made a surprised noise deep in his chest when Patrick held his head firmly in place and took possession of Pete's mouth. Pete stumbled backward, until his legs met the back of the couch for support. Patrick held him there for a long minute, the kiss slowly changing to a series of light presses of open mouth to open mouth, Patrick's tongue darting out for quick tastes of Pete. When he finally pulled back, Pete felt light-headed. "Fuck."

"That could probably be arranged," Patrick said, his lips curving into a small smirk. His cheeks still blazed pink, though, and his eyes searched Pete's face hopefully.

When images of Patrick on his hands and knees - or of Patrick above Pete, sliding his fingers in and out of his body slowly - flashed across Pete's brain, he was glad for the support of the couch behind his legs. In response, he simply hummed and lowered his mouth to Patrick's neck. He skimmed his lips along Patrick's skin until he found his pulse beating erratically underneath warm skin. It was there that Pete stopped, sucking hard on Patrick's skin in a rhythm that matched the phantom drumbeat that still played on the matching spot on Pete's throat. "Oh, Jesus," Patrick said in a strangled, high-pitched murmur.

Pete pulled away and inspected the dark red mark he'd left on Patrick's throat. He smoothed a thumb over it, and smiled when he felt Patrick shiver. "There," he said. "We're even."

Patrick chuckled weakly. "Not hardly."

"Close enough." Pete straightened up and framed Patrick's face in his hands. "You're not going to freak out on me again, are you?"

Patrick exhaled. A small smile played across his lips. "Not if you're serious about all this."

"As a fucking heart attack, I swear to god." When Patrick's smile widened, Pete shoved him backwards and spun around until Patrick was the one pressed against the couch. Pete dropped to his knees. He heard Patrick suck in a loud breath. Pete just looked up and grinned. "Just so we're clear, you still can't whammy me, right? I'm totally in control of my own mind."

"You're an asshole," Patrick muttered shakily. Pete tugged on his sweatpants until they dropped to bunch around Patrick's ankles. He did the same with the boxers, and was rewarded with Patrick's cock bobbing half-hard in front of his face. "Even if I could, I would never-" Patrick swallowed the sentence with a strangled groan when Pete grabbed his cock by the base and licked all the way from his hand to the tip.

The sound of Patrick's voice made Pete giddy. He took Patrick into his mouth, far enough that he felt the tip brushing against the back of his throat, and was rewarded with the most amazing noise he thought he'd ever heard. He didn't look up; he just concentrated on the task at hand, on the feeling of Patrick's body hot and solid underneath him, on the sounds that vibrated through Patrick's chest and down to the skin of his belly, where Pete pressed down to keep him from bucking forward and choking him. Patrick started repeating Pete's name on every ragged exhale, like a mantra. Pete made a satisfied noise in his throat, his mouth firmly fastened around Patrick's dick, and heard his name choked off into a half-sob. It didn't take long after that. The only warning Pete got was his own name, long and drawn out in a low moan, before Patrick was coming. Pete swallowed some, but pulled off and lightly jerked Patrick until he'd finished, leaving a sticky mess all over Pete's hand.

When Pete pulled back to sit on his heels, Patrick's knees buckled, and he slid down the back of the couch until he was sitting in front of Pete. "Holy shit," he breathed.

"Hold that thought." Pete stood up - on unsteady legs himself - and fetched a towel from the bathroom. When he returned, he finished wiping his hand, tossed the towel on the floor and sat next to Patrick. "You all right?"

Patrick started to laugh. "Never better," he said, leaning against Pete. He reached over and played with the zipper on Pete's jeans. He chuckled even more when he felt Pete's cock twitch underneath his fingers. "You want ..."

Pete raised his eyebrows. "Do I want what?" he asked innocently. "What's the question?"

"Oh, fuck off," Patrick grumbled, but his grin never faded. He squeezed Pete's crotch quickly - prompting Pete's legs to quiver and his head to thud back against the couch - before removing his hand and kneeling next to Pete. "Pete," he said with exaggerated care, folding his hands in front of him, "would you like me to suck your dick?"

"You have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say that," Pete groaned. When Patrick stayed still, he looked sideways at him. "What?"

"That wasn't an answer."

"Jackass," Pete said, but Patrick just grinned at him. "Yes, for the love of god, please suck my dick."

"All you ever had to do was ask," Patrick said as he reached down to undo Pete's jeans.

With jeans out of the way, Patrick slid his mouth around Pete's cock. All Pete could do was rest a hand lightly on the back of Patrick's head and stare at the mess of red hair bobbing up and down in his lap. He knew he wasn't going to last very long when Patrick started to hum. When Patrick pulled off, the sound resolved into a melody, broken up when Patrick paused to do something obscene with his tongue that made Pete babble incoherently. Pete didn't recognize the melody, and didn't care. The only thing his brain buzzed with was the light-headed feeling of an impending orgasm. His hand slid into Patrick's hair; Patrick's melody got louder, and he took Pete entirely into his mouth. "Fuck, Patrick, I'm gonna ..." Patrick replied by speeding up the rhythm of his suction, and moments later, Pete spilled helplessly into his mouth, pulling at Patrick's hair and giving a loud, wordless shout.

When Patrick sat up, he rubbed the back of his head, smoothing the hair that Pete had pulled. "Sorry about that," Pete said between shallow breaths.

"It's okay." Patrick's smile was half sheepish. "I kinda liked it."

"Really? You barely even let anyone look at your hair, much less touch it."

"I don't know, man." Patrick flopped down on the floor, resting his head on Pete's legs. He closed his eyes and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his hand. "You seem to be the exception to every fucking rule I have."

"I am unique," Pete agreed, reaching down to brush his fingers over the hickey on Patrick's neck. Patrick opened his eyes and smiled. Pete, however, turned serious. He pressed gently against the mark, feeling Patrick's heartbeat gradually slow to a regular rhythm. "Are you ..."

"Am I what?"

Pete brought his hand back up to his own neck. There were no marks there, but Pete still felt twin bursts of electricity when he touched the spot where Patrick's teeth had penetrated the skin. He was silent for a long moment, then blurted, "I don't want you to feed from anyone else."

Patrick sat up. He stared at Pete for a minute, then reached over and put his hand over Pete's fingers, holding them against the skin. Pete's pulse skipped a beat. "Did it hurt?" Patrick asked. He stared at their hands, entwined on Pete's throat.

"Yeah. Yeah, it did." Pete looked at Patrick until he looked up to meet Pete's eyes. "But it was totally worth it."

"Are you sure? Because-"

"Shut up," Pete said, pulling their hands away from his neck. He held Patrick's hand tight between them. "I'm a selfish, jealous fuck, and I don't want to have to even think about your mouth on anyone else's skin but mine. Okay?"

A long moment passed, but finally, Patrick squeezed Pete's hand. "If you're really sure ..."

"I am. So shut the fuck up."

"Kiss my ass," Patrick said, smiling. He let go of Pete's hand and leaned back. "It was amazing," he confessed, blushing.

"What was?"

"Having you ... your blood. It was awesome."

"So, what you're saying is that I'm the best you've ever had." Pete pretended to buff his nails on his t-shirt. "I get that a lot."

Patrick laughed and shoved at him. "Are you sure your ego will be able to fit through the front door any more?"

"I'll make it fit."

Patrick stood up. He started to walk towards the bathroom, but paused and turned around. He kicked Pete lightly. "Same goes for you, you know."

"What?"

"I'm a selfish, jealous fuck, too."

Pete smiled up at him. "You've got nothing to worry about."

"Famous last words," Patrick grumbled, but he reached down to ruffle Pete's hair before disappearing into the bathroom.

Later that night, as weak light began to slip in through the cracks in the blacked out windows in the living room, Pete looked over at Patrick, sprawled next to him on the couch, only half conscious. The old Twilight Zone episode on the television made his face glow in a sickly light. He poked Patrick in the cheek. "Bedtime for little boys."

"Fuck off." Patrick swatted his hand away, but pushed himself up and off the couch. He yawned, then looked down at Pete. "Come with me?" he asked tentatively.

"Did you change your sheets after last night?"

"Yes, mom."

"Then, yeah."

In Patrick's bedroom, Pete stripped down to his boxers and sprawled face down on the bed, tossing an arm over Patrick's chest when he lay down next to him. Patrick smiled, his eyes already closing. "I'm glad you're here," he said.

Pete watched Patrick's chest rise and fall until he saw the slow, even rhythm of sleep. "Me, too," he murmured.

 

It was one of the rare nights out when everyone Pete knew seemed to be shoved into one tiny club. He took over a booth at the back of the room and shouted happily over the music to everyone who piled in around him. Joe and his new girlfriend, Joe's bandmates, the kids in the band Nick had convinced Pete to promote, old friends from back in Pete's band days. He lost track of Patrick, though, halfway through the evening when he disappeared to the bar with Nick.

It was near closing time when Patrick finally wound his way back to the booth, climbing over a couple of people Pete had just met to sit next to Pete. "Hey," Pete said, close to Patrick's ear, "I thought you were dead. Or undead, as the case may be."

"Ha ha, very funny." Patrick slung an arm over Pete's shoulders and leaned in close. "Nick thinks he might have a gig for me."

"What kind of gig?"

"A music gig, dumbass, playing guitar." When Pete just stared at him, Patrick spread his free arm with an upturned palm. "I know, I know, I'm still worried about all the things I've always been worried about, but apparently this is a jazz combo that plays at a bar in Oak Park four nights a week, ten to close. And, well ..." Patrick flicked his gaze back to the bar and took a deep breath before continuing. "I told Nick I have a sun allergy, that I can't go out during the day at all. He said he'd figured there was something weird going on, and smacked me in the back of the head for being so stupid and secretive."

Pete laughed. "I could have told you that would happen."

"Yeah, well." Patrick shrugged. "He said that jazz musicians are very nearly all allergic to sunlight, anyway, so arranging rehearsals and shit for night hours shouldn't be that big of a problem. Which is probably true."

"So ... you're going to be in a band?"

"I'm going to audition for a band," Patrick corrected. "Who knows if I'm even good enough to be a jazz musician?"

"You're good enough." Pete leaned over and pressed a kiss to the corner of Patrick's mouth. The girl sitting next to Patrick stared at them, eyes wide, but Pete just gave her a wide smile before turning his attention back to Patrick. "I can't fucking wait to see you on stage."

"Don't count your chickens, or my chickens, as the case may be." Patrick nuzzled Pete's temple briefly before letting out a sigh that Pete felt against the sensitive skin inside his ear. "I just ... well, I need money, and I might as well make it playing music, right?"

"Absolutely."

Patrick pulled back, tightening the arm around Pete's shoulders until they were pressed thigh to thigh in the booth. Pete watched the writhing crowd on the floor, dancing along to the band playing on stage. Underneath the bass drum and the vibration of the crowd, he felt a beat pulsing against his skin. After a moment, Patrick's fingers began to drum the same beat on the table in front of them. Pete didn't know whose heartbeat it actually was. Not that it really mattered, anyway.

The beat went on. Patrick's body was warm and solid against him.

Pete closed his eyes and lost himself in the rhythm.


End file.
